the fire bucket

you arrive home late,
a little woozy under the spell
of gin,
but able to find the keyboard,
the button,
the light and begin.
you write a long letter
once more.
but this one you won't send.
it goes on and on
into the dark night.
the words, the emotions,
the anger,
the fear, the primitive soul
pounding
at the keys.
all the horrors of the past
two years.
it's nothing that you haven't
said before, a hundred
times or more.
it's a mess. you laugh
and print it off,
read,
then rip and tear it into
shreds. into the fire bucket
it goes.
amongst the fallen leaves.