The Tabaco Tin Knife
Dad could have left but he stayed put,
and he kept his lips locked,
though a hissing cat
escaped from his hie throat occasionally.
Mother would say stuff,
poisonous stuff
stuff that would make a yellow hound cringe.
He could have gone away,
but neither of them could drive.
He could have taken a bus
to the other side of town
where tuxedo’s penguins
and the sequined
claimed to like tragic opera.
Dad had had enough of drama though.
Before death slit us all up,
he gave me a tobacco tin
with a small gun metal pocket knife in it.
I recall the disappointment I felt
that it was not a genuine Swiss Army knife.
I moved to a far town,
walked all the way,
the tin and knife rattling in my rucksack.
When I got there
I could have dated a very nice girl
but her father was a vicious lout,
and I just wanted some peace in my life.
Dad’s heirloom
lives in a nightstand now,
I’m not passing it on to my son,
somethings should end,
not stay or go away,
just end.
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