late.
a cold plate of dinner on the table.
fork and knife
beside it.
an empty glass too,
he'd tip toe
across the room
and put his finger to his
lips,
motioning upwards
to where my mother
would be asleep
in their room,
telling me to be quiet.
and then
he'd turn the music on
softly, and take me
for a ride on his large black
shoes across
the floor,
whiskey on his breath
giving way
to another woman's perfume.
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