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. It’s a wonder she doesn’t salute

him, their friends confided. But her loot

in the candy jar, beneath the nonpareils –

that was her ticket. One day she’d exit the perils

of this life -  leaving and liberty, capital L’s

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
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