by Hadley D.

I listen from the kitchen

He never weakens, but the tension thickens

His hoodlum friends spend hours on end talking

His thoughts are theories and queries, not realities

I watch from the kitchen

He is so driven and on a mission

His mind explores as he implores his mama

As he preaches his speeches, he spits like a llama

I speak from the kitchen

He doesn’t listen or hear others positions

I am a mere, he doesn’t notice his own sullen wife fighting through life

If I rebuff, am I too tough to be a woman?