Father
You promised you would pick us up and waited.
Feeling we don't matter was stated.
Drinking was more important the pain is my reminder.
The priest handed you a glass.
Was supposed to be at mass.
It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.
You had gone to the paddock.
Mother had cooked potluck.
And sleeping you mumbled curses.
Those memories creep up on me.
I carry them in my briefcase.
Mr Clean doesn't work there.
Copyright © Patrick Cornwall | Year Posted 2011
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