Poetry: A Toast To Tempers

You call me your wife
Made me the vehicle for procreation
I cook all the meals
I wash all the clothes
All night long
I listen to the tuneless music of your nostrils
I heard you
I heard you!
Loud and clear
This morning
I said I heard you
As you told her on the phone
‘be patient,
Is it not just a few thousands,
To fix your hair? Yes,
My wife will soon receive her salary
Just wait
I will send it
I got your back’
I heard you!
Bleeding?
From my stiletto!
Who is bleeding more
You or me
Thank God
I don’t have a temper.

Bose