When night cracks the whip,
Peter the Pumpkin Eater
is back,
and no one minds
what happens behind the rind,
the loud smacks,
the busted lip.
Walls thick enough to forget,
melon-blind to prying eyes,
unwanted guests;
the rumors dismissed.
They say his wife's a cheater.
The say he doesn't beat her,
just leaves her in a hollow cell
with a pepita for a pillow,
and that rotting smell,
but no one ever sees her.
A guarded gourd
that Peter,
and the endless cycle
of seed to seed,
pulpy flesh,
jealousy and need
remain the fruits
of the garden marriage bed.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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