HOME

Truth runs thin in homes
diluted by pills and alcohol.
There’s no hook to hang your hat upon,
no rock on which to stand.
Mothers park along the driveway
at school’s end. Our Buick sits
cock-eyed across the curb.
 
I long to be like other kids, but
know I’m not.  Vodka bottles line
the linen closet - a fully-feathered
duck rests in the freezer.
I show it to my friend.
The puppy ate mom’s sleeping pills
and will not wake again.
 
School is worse - so many faces
whose chatter makes no sense
to me.  I am not them.  Sunday’s
comics fill me with dread.
There’s no vacation from
fear, only blank days that
stretch ahead.