Thinly Veiled Excuses

If you live with a madman, you cancel dinner with friends with thinly veiled excuses.

If you live with a madman, you sit on your bed at night listening to the thud of books

                crashing against the wall in the next room. 

When you tell your frightened three year old  you will protect him your stomach turns over

                and you no longer recognize the shy student with bedroom eyes you thought 

                 you knew.

If you live with a madman, you find your things in a garbage bag in front of the door, you

               hide your mother's jewelry and cry into your sleeping son's hair at night.

Taking meticulous care not to stir his rage or inflame his fury, you swallow hard and 

                 bite your tongue.

You lie still in your bed at night when his footsteps creep along the floors, never knowing

                what may come of  his nighttime wandering.

Wondering  what you have done to provoke the wrath you plan your escape, wish for 

                deliverance and know you will need to disappear, slipping away stealthily, 

                without saying good-bye  to friends.

And you stuff it all back down, hoping it will end, betting on your strength, praying

                that you can take it and come out on top, unaffected.

LR