I see your wicker
waste
paper basket is littered
with
broken bits
of condom boxes;
their white insides
don't quite hide
your two-timing
from me
or dad.
you hardly even
tried
to hustle the
hurriedly ripped
package
to the bottom of the trash
where we could at least
imagine
this isn't happening.
the Trojan helmet
glares in your garbage
and you are his horse
that snuck up on our house.
you kept this new men as yours
while you let them fuck you
on all fours
and we are still at home
forced to witness
whorish
empty boxes of once twenty-four.
one of many things you've
thrown away.
