— my friend Ron’s story

 

Icicles hung

from the rusted roof.

In the dim room, my father’s breath 

reeked of Schlitz, and pot 

was hurled at me.

 

He dragged me 

to the Psych ward,

so electric shock sizzled 

out my shouts, my fists, 

and my rebellion, bleached 

me like the sterile walls.

The night the blackbirds 

sang until dawn,

he coaxed me drunk 

with a young girl.

I was made a father, 

while still a boy.

 

Crows cawed loud,

he forced me out 

of the barren house —

keeping me from 

his hunger, his liquor.

 

When the grass stands 

green again I will be 

a schoolteacher for kids, 

be rain on a dry day —

rise where there is no road.