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Buttons

He's playing me
And I'm playing him.
Domestic abuse
He cries.
Merely my sarcasm.
The lowest form of humour
They say,
But I can't see the harm
If there's wit.
And there's always wit,
A sharp response
Whatever the weather.
Sadly unappreciated.
He could respond
With a guffaw,
With a grin
And all would
Be calm,
But no,
It presses his buttons.
He flies into an instant,
Venomous rage,
And bellows
At a hundred decibels.
The neighbours,
I cringe,
That they can hear.
Where the end
Will be,
I dread.

Poetry by Esti D-G