John Biscello

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.

#23 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by Cindy Sherman