The Tyrant

When he came in before his wife, as always,

And hung his jacket on the hook, and sat,

And noted for the thousandth time the dull ways

That beams streamed through the panes and crawled the floor,

He recognized for once the light that strained

Toward him.  It was mercy.  And the more

He tried to see it as a passing phase,

The more his marriage seemed to be just that:

A casual failure, not worth blame or praise,

But tolerance.  Outside it gently rained—

A sun shower, something odd, an easy clue

That life's not merciless, but scatter-brained.

A rainbow circumscribed the joy he feigned

As the key turned; as she ducked past, withdrew.

Joshua Mehigan

© 1998; originally printed in the Formalist.  Reprinted by permission
of the author.

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