Perhaps,
in a hundred years,
none of this would matter—
the man across the street
would just be a man
and not her husband
holding hands
with that bitch
from 5-C
who had the nerve
to knock on their door
and ask if she could
borrow some butter
she was baking a cake
and was all out—
perhaps, in a hundred years,
bitches that borrow butter
and husbands
will have become
a thing of the past,
but right now,
she had a household to run,
a husband to confront,
and of course the flagrant itch
to burn it all down to the ground,
before picking up the kids.