Frank Penicaro Poet Free verse

18 Street

I was only seven years old when I began to notice unstable life can be.

It was night time and my old man sat on the couch cleaning his newly purchased shotgun.he was moody,angry a silent rage massaged his face .
all I remember was my Mother screaming
he pushed her
punched her in the chest
slapped  her face red.
I screamed,and everything went mute,everything went in slow motion.

He placed the barrel of his shotgun by her jaw.He grabbed me pulled me towards my Mother who rapidly protected me with hugging arms.

I was next,now the shotgun went to my face,tears ran down my cheeks as a broken rain.I could not see,it all became blurry through my eyes.

first shot pumped out hitting the ceiling
second shot quickly blew a hole through  the back of a kitchen chair.
my Mother in an instant pushed my Father to the ground and pulled me toward her tightly,we ran to my Grandfathers apartment in the building.The night before this my old man choked my mother by wrapping a phone cord around her neck.This was life on 18 street.

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