A Woman's Poem

He didn’t like the casserole,

and he didn’t like my cake.

He said my biscuits were too hard,

not like his mother used to make.

I didn’t perk the coffee right,

he didn’t like the stew,

I didn’t mend his socks,

the way his mother used to do.

I pondered for an answer.

I was looking for a clue.

Then I turned around

and smacked the shit out of him.

Like his mother used to do.