Mom called me home, dad
was out of control.
Being out of work does this to him:
He'd bought another car.
I went to his room and found him with
his face in his hands,
the window blinds down.
It's too much pressure on your mom,
I shouldn't have done it.
He had the keys to his forehead,
squinting in the dark.
He clicked his tongue
and it brought me back to grade school.
He would click his disappointment
at my backward threes and fives.
He would take my hands in his,
his always the rougher and thicker,
even when I grew taller.
He barreled them into great fists,
to knock bandits off their horses.