Its mother, choleric as hell, is hurling
Abuse at our poor house. How has it failed
This time? The foam-flecks of her rage go swirling
About the yard; a trash-can has just sailed
Across the driveway, flung wide by her wrath.
And then, as suddenly, the weather clears—
Sunlight is gentle to the trash-strewn path
And dries the windows’ iridescent tears.

Where is she now? In heaven with her gin
And lover? Never mind, she has withdrawn.
The sodden garden-cushions are brought in,
The broken branches gathered from the lawn—
As if a child, with careful neatness, could
Deflect her next-time ire by being good.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 32 Number 6, on page 28
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