“Dad is drunk.”
you say it again.
“Dad is drunk.”
D, what a harsh letter
for such a harsh sound.
“Dad is drunk.”
Words he cannot even
say because
he
is too drunk
and a liar.
“Dad is drunk.”
And every time
you see that blue
or silver or red can,
every time you
see it you hear
its crunch in his
hand, his lips slurping
down the poison that
killed your family tree.
“Dad is drunk.”
Every time you say
those three words,
three words you
have heard far more
times in your
twenty-one years than
those other three words,
every time nothing changes.
“Dad is drunk.” Again.
What else is new?