She loves her swearing, using
it with great aplomb. Accents on
hard consonants like stomping.
At this moment she stomps.
“I killed it, the little motherfucker!”
squashing life and guts onto the
smooth grey surface. “Everything
deserves to live, babe,” I lament.
“Not in my garage it doesn’t.”
I slowly bring in the bags,
not matching her hurried
pace. Then why not kill those
swallows that return every year
and leave droppings on the porch?”
“Well, that’s different,” she spouts
with her cute head cocking.
“They are family now.” I nod,
careful to stow the fruit with
tangerines on top and apples
on bottom under watchful eye.