my father sitting in his big
chair,
in the dark,
smelling of Canadian Club,
smoking a pipe.
stewing over something
we didn't understand,
giving my mother
the silent treatment
once more.
a weekly thing.
we stayed away, we
walked on tip toes,
not even saying goodnight
as we crept up
the stairs.
he was a volcano
growling, rumbling.
we wondered
when would he finally
erupt. would it
be tonight?
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