mr. bishop

if you were in
the shower too
long, he'd turn
off the hot water
and send you scrambling
out of the tub.
if you left the light
on, he'd take a broom
and break the bulb
so that you'd walk
on the broken glass
in your bare feet.
if you forgot to
take the trash out
it would be in your
bed, beneath the blankets,
old food on your sheets.
when you returned home
from school. the dog
you loved for
ten years, before your
mother married this
stranger, would be gone,
driven away to somewhere
in the dead of night,
let loose on some dirt
road. and this is how it
went and how it still
goes for my mother,
who can't see outside
her prison walls. we
are all older now,
and he still lives, i can
still see him if i choose
to, but don't, a cigar
stub in his crooked grin,
unshaven, standing in
the livingroom on christmas
day in his underwear
for everyone to see,
working on his fifth
pabst blue ribbon, belching
and getting into
the holiday spirit.