A Splash of Cabernet

He strokes a patch of ceiling
in his mother's empty kitchen
taking note of which spot
at the table is below it:

Her husband's seat.
The brute in buck's clothing.
A wedge driven deep
between blood and family folklore.

With fist raised to mimic
a tossing of the glass
he recreates the action
that left those purple stains.

"This is why I didn't come,"
the son says of Thanksgiving
to a sad and full refrigerator.
His mother saved the food.

There are shames that thrive in alleys.
Death loves fluorescent lighting.
The criminals use banners
to hide their sins in view

but there are some sadder scenes
that one never would expect
like a man without a home
and all his family living.

Currently reading:
"We Are What We Pretend To Be" by Kurt Vonnegut.

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