What was he?
Who was the man behind
The literal smokescreen of
Marlboros, the orange, glowing
Embers
Gradually taking him to his
Death
Those hands that might’ve
Shook
When opening a bottle of gin,
Popping the tin lid of a beer
Bottle with a sharp hiss and
Rush of alcoholic steam
Meeting the sober world
What was his booze of
Choice?
What were the words
That he yelled, rained down
Upon my normally controlled,
Tight-lipped grandmother, my unyielding
Mother, her quiet sisters?
Did those shaking hands
Ever strike
A pale face covered freckles,
Ever rattle a metal doorknob
In the middle of the night,
Light a Marlboro with trembling hands,
Tar meeting pink skin?