Father
Every day my father drank:
a six-pack of beer
a bottle of sherry
a fifth of brandy.
Then at 49 he quit.
When he jumped at the last instant
There wasn't much left of the family.
We had run all the minor melodramas:
Mother and Son Huddled in Bathroom,
Father Hacks at Locked Door with Axe.
Father Throws Dishes at Son
As Son Studies School Work.
Father Terrifies All Son's Friends.
Father Knocks Down Christmas Tree,
Breaks Son's Presents.
Father Knocks Down Mother,
Son Knocks Down Father.
Father Attacks Son with Knife.
Father Drives Wrong Way up 4-lane,
But Jumps Curb Nicely.
At Mother's Special Dinner Party,
Father Has Elbow in Spaghetti,
Then falls on the Floor.
Mother Puts Out Burning Father Again,
Who Has Passed Out Smoking.
It was a riveting season
And the ratings remain high.
Than at 49 he quit drinking,
And he talked me into working with him
At a small failing company in Quebec.
I worked 11 hours a day assembling
Pulp testers for paper machines,
The chemical smell of a dry cleaner
Rising up through the building.
Drilling plexi-glass, bolting sheet metal,
Gluing PVC, connecting electrical wire,
And my father would talk and watch me,
Smoke Camel straights, drink coffee,
Wander around.
At night we stayed in a bland town
With an old drinking buddy of my father's.
I slept on a musty sofa in a GI blanket,
But we ate in a smoky French-Canadian dive,
T-bone steaks slathered in HP sauce
And a few Brador malt liquors for me.
And we'd sit there cutting our steaks
Away from the bone, talking
About sports cars and racing,
Shaking on a bit more sauce,
The charcoal pit smoldering vaguely,
The charbroil smoke mixing
With the Camel smoke, my father
Chewing on his finger nails,
Compulsively clearing his throat,
My father talking, my father
Laughing, . . .
We didn't have many good times,
But we had a few.