clipped toenails

her nagging drowns his strumming guitar
his head bows down and down
closing his eyes, he blots her out-
slowly starts a tuneless song
instead of ending the discussion,
this winds her up even more.
she again starts on about his faults,
reciting one after another
as though she’s building up a case
he leans back in his big blue recliner-
starts clipping his toenails
he wonders if maybe he can
get one of those prefab storage sheds for the backyard
he needs a place he can be alone
and play his guitar as loud as he wishes
if he soundproofs it,
he can use the little shed as a recording studio
more he clips his nails, more he whistles
and suddenly senses something
looks at the darkening sky and says-
we'd better get back, 'cause it'll be dark soon,
and they mostly come at night... mostly

"his bent head doesn't register her fangs
till those dig into the back of his neck"