Divorce is the 
Dance of Tarantella.
Provocative sways of dismay
Pirouette with atrocities of
Being five minutes late
And sheared hair without the
Prerequisite permission.
Dips of calm and civil speech
Until pliés crash with pleas 
For peace on deaf ears
Until death is yearned for.
            And then…
A silken wrap swallows 
Could it be
Oh yes those are My wings
With ecstatic pastel swirls.
I can sing with the
Mockingbird and 
Pollinate next to bumbles
In the Lilies and Daisies.
Hell naw!
It can’t be over?
I’m still a fucking cuckold.