Witnessing Domestic Violence on a Delightful Friday Afternoon

The wind shook the frail limbs
Of the young white oak.
The leaves spinning in gyrations,
Flashing the almost translucent green
Of their veined bottom,
Looked like photographers cameras
Pulsing light at the swing of a bat.

My neighbor’s truck pulled in the lot
Popping small pearl pebbles beneath
His gratuitously large tires.
He never took his sunglasses off
As he opened the door,
Drug his wife into the yard
And slapped the shit out of her,
For all the neighbors and leaves to see.