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That night, the restaurant would reverberate

with the voice of a husband, who would berate

his wife mercilessly for what she ate.

Afterward, a taxi transported

them home. The next day, she sported

a shiner on her right eye. Her husband Ted

would say she ran into a refrigerator

door. She said nothing, this gyrator

around him, serving her terrible tour

of marriage; she held to absolute

silence. Its a wonder she doesnt salute

him, their friends confided. But her loot

in the candy jar, beneath the nonpareils

that was her ticket. One day shed exit the perils

of this life -  leaving and liberty, capital Ls

in her book - and take the electricity

with her. He would be able to go nowhere in the city,

powerless, darkened, tasting the leaves of a bitter tea.

07/18/2004

Author's Note: Another writing exercise from The Practice of Poetry - probably not the final draft. Note how each stanza contains \"nested\" rhymes - i.e., the 2nd and 3rd lines of each stanza are words derived from progressively shortened versions of the longer word....

Posted on 07/18/2004
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt