Domestic

My father, the policeman, drove past the prison,
delivering me to my Saturday job on his way to the station.
In there, he said, they’re all murderers. Very quiet,
not what you’d expect. The prison officers
all want to work there, it’s such an easy job.
All the blokes in there murdered their wives.
Wouldn’t say boo to a goose most of them.
Just a one time thing, apparently. They just got pushed
too far and snapped, picked up a knife or a hammer –
it was all over in a moment, too late to take it back.
They confess right away. Some of them
call the police themselves. They’re all in there
together, doing their time, mild little men.

He seemed proud of them: men who had just once
stood up for themselves. How often had my mother
pushed him? How far did she have to go?