Fifty-Per Cent
He put ten years on her eyes in a single morning.
He didn’t do much to her except walk away.
He never raised a hand and he never raised too damned much money.
But he left her fifty-per cent of his final pay.
She’s holding two jobs and she’s holding her little heart together
The children make their own beds and breakfast, too.
The women’s magazines provide advice—and coupons.
And her Mama and her sister drop by, to see her through.
There’s no hard feelings, they’re the best of friends, still.
He takes the children on Sunday afternoon.
She’s liberated from love, she’s her own person.
And no one sees her cry except the moon.
She’s taking two classes down at the local college,
A book-keeping course and volleyball 101.
She’s twenty-eight, she’s changed her hair, she’s jogging!
And her friends down at work say her life has just begun!
But you know, fifty-per cent of the American dreams get broken.
One-half of the brides and grooms pay lawyer’s fees.
And fifty-per cent of the couples are coming uncoupled.
But the precise percentage of tears nobody sees.
1981
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