People I Want to Punch (a list poem)

me punching adam

My ex-husband,

and still I wonder how many lady friends lingered

now that his child support and alimony

has reduced him to candlelight and Ramen Noodles.

Asshole.


My ex-husband’s mistresses,

life is not a Harlequin romance and he is not Hugh Hefner.


My ex-mother in law,

I guess I would be a troll too,

if I had nothing better to do

than hang out in my son’s basement

and peek upstairs to yell that the kids are too loud.


The lady who drives the blue minivan in the car rider line,

(keep honkin’, I can’t go any faster than the person in front of me).


People who leave flyers on my car,

if the silver crown appliqué reading, “Tiny Miss” doesn’t clue you in,

the bright yellow, “Baby on Board,” sticker should denote

that my demographic is not interested in attending the

green-laser trance party on Saturday night,

even if you are serving free beer.


The creator of Frozen,

more specifically, the writer of “Let it Go.”


Moms that look at me funny when I climb trees at the park,

let my children keep thinking that we go so that they can play.


The guy who hits on me at my kids’ Tae Kwon Do lessons

“Well, I haven’t seen you around this DoJo before,”

is not an effective pick-up line.


People who steal my chocolate,

my husband,

but only when he tries to steal my chocolate.


“Mom”petitors, I could care less about your 8-yr old’s full scholarship to Yale.

What concerns me?

The glowing green glob of mucus fresh from his nose

that he wiped on my child’s shirt.


The guy who bikes down Deacon road at 8:15 A.M. Monday through Friday

and refuses to stay in the bike rider lane.


That dimple-cheeked momma’s boy

who wears ironed socks and is never wrong,

who will try to make one of my daughters feel as though

she is no better than tiny pieces of dirt stuck on the bottom of his Nike shoes,

I will hunt you down.


and that preppy blonde who will tease one of my sons

and bitch at him because he said her name the wrong way,


as she strolls down a velvet aisle covered in hundred dollar rose petals

and her five-thousand dollar Tadashi dress.

I turn my grimace into a graceful smile,

bite my tounge,

and admire her boquet:

fake,

yellow roses.

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