I grew

I grew up in a ring of tobacco smoke
mixed with sweat and Tabu perfume
a father full of "son-of-a-bitch" and Sunday
mass, drinking Grainbelt
and smoking at the base
of the summer oak- it was a long day of farming
and framing  to keep famine in check

I grew up with
a mother who dreamed of escape
sitting, smoking late in the corner darkness,
leaving a map of her plan
meandering the floor in a stark and empty room -

I grew up with spittoons, guitars, Johnny Cash and
Hank Williams
songs - a fathers dream that drifted further
and further away
with each pack of Camel's, with each baptism
and with each passing year
- it was a man

it was a man
and a broken women, who's dream
remained forever silent between the breaking
of each morning and the ending of each day, while
she kept one eye on the door and
the other on the ashtray
that guarded her L & M's and the
map she buried

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2017


posted for Poet's United