Mother sits at the table Reeking of lost sobriety The cremated remains of death, rest in an ashtray before her A newspaper rattles in her hands She inhales smoke Exhales a jarring cough The surrounding walls are painted with yellow tar I sit to her left Concerned only with coloring Peter-pan I press the crayon hard Vivid green brings life to the page The wax never crosses the lines: This is crucial Father is sleeping on the couch Preparing himself for a night at work Unintelligible voices pour from the television Their volume is only surpassed by that of his snores Mother looks to the clock above the sink Mutters a word and stands Smoke trails behind her as she leaves Father awakens with a protest Words like wasps swarm the air Mother returns to her seat The violent buzz filling the void between them Father comes after Drowsy and enraged Still I color He picks a can of soda from the table Fury flaring at its temperature The wasps begin to sting My eyes leave the page The unopened can fires from his hand She sinks into herself The can explodes against the wall: Soda pop fizz I spasm in fear Now the wasps are in a frenzy I watch the colors run on the plaster Mother stands Father leaves The air is silence Mother leaves The wall bleeds brown from an alabaster wound In my book the wax has settled The lost boy must become a man
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So real that it hurts to this day!
Love this poem!