canadian club

when you sat
at the top of the stairs
and listened to your mother
and father fight,
listened to
the cursing, the dishes
breaking against
the wall,
you wondered
why they still had the tv
on. usually it was
Alfred Hitchcock
Presents.
finally, exhausting each
other with
verbal tirades fueled
by Canadian Club Whiskey,
they'd quit, or fall asleep
in separate chairs.
sometimes your mother
would have a cast
on her arm
the next day, a piece
of adhesive tape
holding her black framed
glasses together.
your father would
be in the kitchen
sweeping up glass,
and frying eggs and bacon
for everyone,
strangely serene.