late again

my father
coming up the stairs
in hard boots
was heard
throughout the house,
as was his
voice,
his whistle, or cough,
red faced with weather,
the barrel of him full
of smoke
and whiskey.
how on edge we'd be
waiting
for the smile, or growl,
an equal chance at
both when
he came home late at night,
with supper
cold.
his pockets empty, limp
flowers in his
hand
as he wiped the pale
remnants of lipstick
from his jowls.