Somewhere, you can find love

I was searching the bottom of a glass
for some inspiration
when I remembered my dear sister:
Five years my junior,
complete with a few cliché tattoos
and a couple of sprogs
to keep the benefit cheques rolling in.
The daughter of my dear mother
who waited until I was eleven
to leave a note on a kitchen table at 3 am
declaring her permanent absence
from our lives.
We drove around for hours
trying to find the new suitors house,
but when we got there my father did nothing.
That man! What a man!
Cremated to a dreadful piece of music
I chose to forget.
It wasn’t chosen by him,
the Stan Kenton fan,
but by his wife,
my step mother.
The same woman that saw me homeless
at seventeen, playing on a park bench
for a few evenings
before I found my saviour.
He stood up for himself so much
that his blood line was removed from the will
when it was handed over
to my step mother and her daughter.
‘You can trust us’
they must laugh together
over whatever my hard earned cash
has bought them to drink.
Then there’s the brother:
I define unlucky
with a man who has a vasectomy
at the age of eighteen
and carries four kids in to his thirties.
I define misdirected as a physical threat
from Canada that is supposed to carry weight.
Anyhow, now there’s no need to buy
the forthcoming novel;
‘This is how to escape,’
which is a good thing,
because I’ll never finish it anyhow.