His Final Storm

Around the old man’s sick bed Arranged in the dining room His amber bottles of pills were spread And the mother a loving wife was playing Serving herself iced vodka and tea There she shed her cold crystal tears For all the neighbors to see You could feel a storm brewing As the young sons thundered their rage While their father’s skin turn papery thin Their mother took center stage Even the pill bottles were rattling In the gathering forces of guilt and blame Who loved him the most, used him the least And who should feel the most shame The air was damp with silent weeping And grief clung to the walls around him His wife’s hidden bottles and family lies Made up his fifty years of martyrdom It was in the clear light of morning He lay still in a kind of peace For he had now left the bedlam behind His face sunken and calm, the pain had ceased For the family’s drama--a new beginning