Detente
You’ve got to be kidding
One more time
The perfunctory olive branch
It would be easier to breathe
While choking on a knotted, grease
Soaked dish rag than to say the words
Another emotionally charged
Stand-off, we’re both right,
Just ask, either of us
Fools or sadists
We dance again on bruised
And bloodied toes
Trying exhausts
Any change seems
A vapor arriving too late
Extending the inevitable
Last gasp, maybe, clinging
To fading shreds of hope