the gentle of art of compromise (with a rabid skunk)

I  know the precise words
to assuage the pitty little pitiable pits
of your stomach

after the finger nails of our tongues
have scratched the eyeballs of our soul
raw and vacant.

But, oh man, that smell ...

that smell that asks 'should I stay'
here
on the crushed velor of neutral tones
after ruining our day?

Should I check the fridge for tomato juice
and pour us both tall glasses,
sprinkle them with black pepper,
dose them with Tabasco,

go outside,
kick the skunk from the trash
and (maybe) ruin our night?