Your father drank too much,
his drinking buddies encouraged the vice,
together they would spiral downward
in back alleys.
Overtly, he kept on downing firewater
from little plastic cups
until his face was permanently set crimson
with blood shot, puzzled eyes.

Each episode was worse
and escalated the domestic drama
when he would come home at dawn
with a busted head and bruised hands,
our grandma sobbed as she washed him down.

And every time he spoke,
or simply opened his mouth,
his foul breath and slurred words
made you nauseous,
made me edgy.

Your father drank too often
to distort the facts and halt the time
(a self-destructive hobby)
but facts still stood and stared back
with glazed over, dead eyes of his
former drinking buddies.

And so he'd drink some more
to smudge the truth and certainty
of his own slow rotting.

He would enjoy rare moments
of complete detachment from all
the pressure and expectation
to provide food and shelter
at times when those things
were scarce.

Your father used to be a goalie,
tall, but quick and agile,
but now face down, hands broken,
your father, stiff, sleeps in the dust.