He sat on the couch after bungling the dishes omitting the corners ignoring my wishes A little strychnine a death in time and he’ll be all right this weak man of mine I came from behind armed and emboldened jammed the syringe down into his shoulder I pressed in the plunger and ran to the john afraid but not sorry it had to be done A moan and some stomping the clasp of a door a flopping syringe had dropped to the floor He returned without change from punishment earned no gift or repentance no lesson was learned Next day he’d forgotten to take out the trash so I looked at devices to help my man crash After feeding him poison with plenty of salt my hand touched his chest explaining his faults But soon he was up out the door, it was strange no mention of illness no mention of change