I sat on a lawn chair in the driveway

on Saturday morning, 

watching, from behind the newspaper,

the neighbors drive by

to meet their married lovers. 

Mother, before she backed out of the driveway

On her way to meet Hank, 

Told me spying was wrong.

My father, watching from the porch, 

Told me not to listen to her, 

Because infidelity was worse. 

I cared for neither instruction.

I whipped them both with words, 

Peeling each disembodied letter off of the paper

And flinging them. 

“6 Indiana murders allegedly incited by infidelity” I shot. 

I watched the letters attach themselves

To my mother’s car, right above 

The license plate.

I wanted to brand 

her, let them stay there forever.

But I knew better. I turned on the hose and blasted them

all away.