The dump truck stops at his curb.
A pack of wolves file into the house, men in orange vests,
Greedy eyes taking in everything they see.
My father politely escorts them to the place he has hidden our past;
He flings wide the door.
The chains spill, twisted and tangled, onto the floor.
The men leer as he begins his arduous task.
Sweat flows into a river at his feet;
Another obstacle for him to blame.
The chains eat his calloused hands like children gobbling cake.
The river becomes tinted the rusty red of an old Ford truck.
Rivers of blood and water, guilt and denial that he has made for himself.
“Rivers of necessary evils,” he tells them as he fills the truck to bursting.
Evils that allow him to poke and push and torture.
Evils that allow him peace and pleasant dreams.