Drugstore Indian

Your anger
boils at a low simmer
filling the air between with
steam
thick and sticky
obscuring daylight.

I want to ask you
why
you are so mad
at me
haven't I done what you asked?
Freed you from the chain
of your love for me?

But you do not acknowledge
the anger
or any emotion
you have become
another wooden indian
standing in the door
of the drugstore
wearing the Red
of Colonial Times
as armour against
your savage self.

No, you say nothing
and will just nurse your
anger and
drop diatribes veiled as
helpful hints
that only help
the beat me further down.