I Only See Him On Wednesdays Poem by John W. McEwers

The week doesn't begin
until Wednesday at 2: 00pm.

I pull my Toyota into the driveway
carefully, attentively.

Somewhere beyond the peeling white paint
is the beginning of my week.

My ex scowls, venom dripping from her harpy mouth,
too large for the shirt that rides her belly.

My son must be ecstatic to be out
of that house, even if only for three hours.

He cries so hard and I carry him away,
arms reaching, as if to strangle the banshee in the window.

I despise her for making him weep
for the three hours we have.

I despise her for the chore
of making him stop.