Call It A Wednesday

The four of them sat down to dinner.
The husband complained.
The children wouldn’t shut up.
The wife neither talked nor listened.
“Money doesn’t grow on trees,”
the husband continued to lecture his
mashed potatoes.
The children grew moustaches as
they gulped their milk.
The wife counted the dirty dishes.
Later, she yelled at
the youngest for spilling sauce on
the tablecloth.
“Goddammit,” he said,
throwing his fork down at
the sound of tears,
“can’t a man get some peace and
quiet in his own home.”
Call it a Wednesday.
No cookies were left after dessert.

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