the honeymoon

my father
rarely drank alone.
the scratches and lipstick
on his face
proved other wise
when his car pulled up at
some
ungodly hour
to his so called home
holding a wife
and seven children.
then the battle
would begin.
Italian women don't take
a liking
to men like him.
in the morning
there would be glass
on the floor,
the phone cord cut
to keep the police or
good Samaritans out of it.
the bottle of
brown whiskey
would be empty.
cigarettes filled the ashtrays.
the both of them
would be asleep in their
room, exhausted
by each other,
cuddled together like new
lovers
on their honeymoon.