At My House

I grew up between a carrot
and a stick.
Running this way and this way
I learned to dance with both feet
off the ground,
Play statue reading book while
Breathing Mozart and the
Lord’s Prayer from A minor.
Down the hall Papa kept his blue
socks separate from the black
and the liquor key busy
on some kind of schedule.

While I practiced my lines
and he was voicing his,
Mama did her part flying quiet,
supper on the table hot by six.
The food was usual,
conversation a surprise.
Some nights we ate carrots;
Some nights when the table jumped up
and smashed his fist, the silver shouted
and we all took showers from the milk glass.