the happy pain

when your father
came home early,
early for him, he would
come into the room
and kiss you goodnight.
you felt the rough
bristles of his cheek,
smelled the whiskey
on his breath like a
dangerous cloud.
he'd rub his fingers
together near your ear
and pull out a dime.
those were the good
nights.  he'd say
goodnight then
leave, closing
the door. but you
could still hear
the clinking of glasses
in the livingroom,
the playful chase
and then your
parents bedroom
door close gently
against the frame..
the sighs and noise,
the flesh on flesh
was muted by walls
and wood, but enough
seeped under the door
to hear
your mother's voice
enduring and enjoying
some sort of happy pain.
or so it seemed.
the other nights,
involved a different
kind of pain altogether.