Bundletrucker
by David Allen

My husband hit me.
The pillow, a glued lamp
wets with scarlet spit.
What he has between
his legs he carries
 
with effort. I watch him
push the lawnmower
barefoot, the mound
of a gopher or mole
he kicks above the grass.
 
He lights a gas bomb
inserts it into the hole,
covers it with dirt,
the leaking gas
like bean stalks
 
sneaking between his toes.
I inhale from my cigarette,
leave him out of this.

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