The Wardrobe And The Drunk

[billy]

When papa came home drunk, as was often the case,
I would hide in the bur walnut wardrobe and silently wet myself.
scared the puddle would leak beneath its door.
Sometimes the sanctuary of the dark was too far,
or I would be asleep on the couch as he staggered into the house.
I’d dig my feet into the cushions and clench them with my toes.
Forcing my body into the corner of the threadbare settee,
I willed my flesh to become invisible though it never did.
His breath smelled of garlic and Guinness.
Through the years vomit had rotted the enamel off his teeth,
lop-sided stumps that seemed as drunk as he was hung from his upper jaw
in their brown decay.
The lower jaw; void, bar a single rotten stub,
standing like a nicotine stained cigarette butt on a table for lack of an ashtray.
He’d twist my ringlets in his hands and pull,
spittle splashed my face as he swore his love.
I prayed for mama but she’d left for some lothario;
on leave from Her Majesties Royal Navy, even so, I prayed.
I still do but she never hears.