Angina

Angina

Mother brought a guest into the house
and kept him. Twenty years at the table,
Dad with his bloodhound courage, I with my possum eye
silent in his presence. We called him Pain.

No one got in a word while he was speaking.
When one of us would touch her,
a glance toward his feet: permission, modesty.
Said she loved us, poured his coffee first.

The tapeworm built a castle in her heart
till every blush was his, each careful movement.
Over stale Rice Krispies we coughed and changed our plans
while she lolled in bed with that bastard son of a prince.

None of us guessed she had yet another lover.
One day at noon his soft glove shattered the door.
She put down her fork, stood up, and left Pain with us.
He threw a tantrum. We swept up rusty screws.

The creep stayed on. That night in the kitchen
his hand brushed Pop's arm. I had to say something.
"Listen, you two depress me, this is weird,
I won't put up with it. The sponger goes, or me."

The look they gave each other sent me reeling.
My father's voice seemed to come from far away.
"Son, looks like we've finished off the braunschweiger.
I have to take a nap. Entertain our friend."

There we were. Pain opened up the fridge,
got the Old Crow out and poured me a third of a glass.
"What do you want?" I whispered. "I'll give anything,
only leave this house at once!" The wan thing smiled.

"Bob," he began, "you know I'd love to talk,
but it's getting late and you've got a way to go.
Put your trust in me. I know every stone in the road,
let me help you plan your trip. Sit down," he said.