|Apr/May 2009 Poetry|
Last Call at Shanny's Tavern
In the pallid light of dusk my father looked less
beaten, the black eye from the brawl'd gone gray.
When his pockets emptied, it became his job
to drain all bottles: amber, clear and green.
As if his idle hands were hollow, he tried to break
them against a stranger's body.
He hopped down the steps of the trailer sober,
mother looking through the kitchen curtain.
He knew his whisky could mix
too well with our blood. The soft light
of dawn brought him home singing,
a lilt of a voice so separate from us,
those lullabies of oil and water.