You’ve told me more about Saturday nights
            than I want to know.  Fridays were big at
                        our house: paycheck, bar, pan to the crown when
            he came home swinging.  The morning after
was like church a day early: guilt.  Always

a headache in cast iron, no buses
            but two cars in the driveway, a stack of
                        bills paid for during the week.  By the fifth
            day, he wanted to be a child again,
swagger like a teen inside a middle

aged paunch, expectations for life thwarted
            by time and poor decisions, a father, 
                        lost and overboard in a leaky
            life boat, briefly sharing provisions while
eyeing the life preservers and the oars.

– Sandra Kolankiewicz