I wished her a happy Friday
with a smile and a bit of irony.
"Praise Jesus!" she exclaimed
with all religious sincerity.
I was uncomfortable.
It was Friday, the end of the week,
not the sudden cure
for a terminal illness.
Later the copier jammed
which caused her to mutter
"son of a biscuit," sparing us
the true color of her wrath.
I became enraged for her,
at her, so left the room
to spare her
the foul mouth of my mind.
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