He cries for awhile, for no apparent reason.
Sniffs, blows his nose. Then goes about his
business, stomp, pound, smash, crush, explode.
Then cries a little more, sob, blubber, bleat.
It’s awful, he says. It’s of no use. He throws
his chair through the window. It’s a mess, he says.
The whole damned thing is useless. Now he’s
really weeping, cascades, waterfalls, rivers.
I shouldn’t bother, he says. It’s a big, miserable
waste of time. His wife walks in. Honey,
haven’t you finished changing the baby yet?
Almost finished, he chirps.