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My Brucie is now a ticking time bomb
he's Dr. Jekyll
and I'm always waiting for Mr. Hyde.
If the subway is late
or the Yankees lose
my Brucie's blood bubbles,
his heart beats out of his chest,
veins on his forehead throb
and bulge
and he's gone.
Shirt ripped, skin the most vile green
we're living in a constant state of panic
that the monster inside
will erupt.
He is a creature of the night
a fugitive
a loner.
Our relationship's impossible.
Bed time's never a joy.
Stirring in his sleep
dreaming of raging through the city
uprooting buildings like flower bulbs
and lunging them into the Hudson.
The bedsheets rip and he's off again.
One day we'll have kids
tiny green toddlers
smashing the other kid's train sets
and stealing their cookies.
'Just like their Daddy,' he'd grin with such pride
at our little terrors.