Mother sits inside the kitchen by the window and the scene,
a cold cup of coffee in her hands
picturing what life should have been.
A stack of paper at her elbow,
unpaid bills and final requests,
this is all that father left her,
his legacy and all its debts.
He was a drunk but mother loved him,
up until the very end,
even when he’d come home late
and make her victim to his hands.
What she would give now to feel the bruises,
well she would give almost anything,
for every night of violence
became one of love in the end.
And mother sold her bed to keep the roof above our head
and now she sleeps upon the couch, at night, haunted by the dead.
His old shirts keep her company now that father is in the ground.
Look around and see the sadness that holds up the walls of this house.