Roethke’s reprise – dan provost

Big smacks from
my childhood…

Still carry nightmares of Dad’s
anger issue.

Leaves me questioning why
hatred was such a standard
quandary to carry around.

No one heard the begs
for bleeding

Praying for my walk around the house

on feared, adolescent
eggshells—would not
lead to promised pain.

of a backhand…

Or the scrape from a belt buckle.

The silver chair now lies
dormant in an emotionally
imploded cellar.

A piece of furniture where
the chamber of horrors was

Slaps, punches, insults
from a drunken father.

Life lessons accumulated…

You wear the nights of
Papa’s Waltzes well…

Don’t you son?

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