deepundergroundpoetry.com
the red wine rodeo
as a parent, at least I know
to look for fuchsia in the snow
or in spots about the kitchen tile.
As my child's only chance
to refuse addiction's dance,
I'll sharpie-mark my bottles,
I will not be beguiled
by the easy, wide suburban walls,
or leave the wine to stench and call
to my sober, bored, alone
suburban child.
The redness will not find their teeth -
the yellow, either, after weeks
of hearing siren songs
and listening.
What a light head.
dad is kind and funny and would never hurt us,
ever,
but he goes through bottles so quick
he does not notice the sneaky red
in my coffee mug,
or the wine/water level
bucking up to the lip of the bottle;
doing the drought -
shrinking,
shrinking,
almost - and
all out.
to look for fuchsia in the snow
or in spots about the kitchen tile.
As my child's only chance
to refuse addiction's dance,
I'll sharpie-mark my bottles,
I will not be beguiled
by the easy, wide suburban walls,
or leave the wine to stench and call
to my sober, bored, alone
suburban child.
The redness will not find their teeth -
the yellow, either, after weeks
of hearing siren songs
and listening.
What a light head.
dad is kind and funny and would never hurt us,
ever,
but he goes through bottles so quick
he does not notice the sneaky red
in my coffee mug,
or the wine/water level
bucking up to the lip of the bottle;
doing the drought -
shrinking,
shrinking,
almost - and
all out.
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