ancient history

you can't tell your children

how hard

it was for you as a child.

they look at you and laugh.

it's ancient history. they

shake their heads.

they say, right dad, sure.

you had no food, all your shoes

had holes in them

and you had no car, no gas

to get around, even if there

was one.

you tell him about bunk beds,

shared beds,

shared clothes.

your mother standing out in the cold

hanging sheets

on the iced line.

the charity baskets of food

from the church left

on the porch.

you tell him about the electricity

being cut off from

an unpaid bill.

there was no air conditioning,

the clang of the old black

fan falling from side to side.

broken windows,

the leaky roof.

you tell him about your paper

route. how you woke

up at five in the morning.

the lawns you mowed, the cars

you washed to buy your own

clothes.

you tell him how

they almost broke the family

up, putting some of the kids

into foster homes.

the welfare woman at the door

with her clipboard

and camera.

you tell them the whole story,

the whole story

and more.

and he looks at you and says.

let's go to morton's tonight, dad,

okay?

haven't had a rib eye

in weeks.