Father

six paces
down the hall.
storm front
rolling inward.
egotistical
earthquake.
shake the
foundation.
spitting
molten
accusations.
do you laugh
or do you cry?
blank looks and
sighs
just
avert your eyes.
there are no locks
on these doors
its a rigged game
you rarely win
with spite prizes
and
deafening consequence
tires in the driveway, baby
hold your breath.
car doors clamor.
camera shutter
eyelids.
and maybe if you
close them tight
enough
the wood wont
splinter.
he wont
climb the stairs
and we can hide forever
the iron voice
hot from the forge
sears the fleeting hope
to cinder
your salt is for dinner
blood sweat or tears
the fruits of your labor
spoiled before dessert
aged angst.
passive aggression.
balled up
neatly
in heart creases.
they're already dead.