Whiskers

Punishing the table with boots
hidden but not forgotten, the son
moved, clicking heels, regretting change
but waiting.

The old man moved too, hearing motorcycles growl
on gravel, the parakeet still chirping,
a gay sound near drab gray walls peeling
from the work of ancient grease,
kitchen counter slippery like egg yolk
sinking in spaghetti sauce.

His pounding headache seemed
impossible, the boy’s boots clanging
on cement, the boy’s orbs checking
him out sideways, insinuating, still,
mocking.

Should have gone then, he thought,
should have heard
the bike and left,
sloppy eyes lingering but gone,
his boy an overgrown piglet.

The boy stood, scraping boots on wood, his
eyes looking direct now,
looking at the space between them.

Eager to please notions gone
these ten years, the teen bitched
and grated through memories, his sullen
black hair and mystery chin whiskers
poking ruins in yesterday.

‘Where you goin’, dad, out
drinkin’ more? Out with
them friends from camp, those
pricks you shit with at work?

Don’t come back if you
leave, We don’t need you no more, Get
out and take those drooping pecs
somewhere shabby. Mom don’t
need them no more.”