Fridays, Stevie's Father Comes Home from the Bar
by John P. Kristofco



I watched him coming home at seven,
weaving past the Fleetwing, Kalinowski's, the duplex by the light,
hazy eyes unblinking like his stolen soul at Anzio,
still dodging every shadow on the path,
focused from the whiskey now,
and pouring molten steel, lava from a heart
held captive in a rusty box beside a crooked stream.

At home, his Steven, wary of the demons of his week,
delivered papers, cut the grass,
rode his Schwinn to Foodtown for his mom,

and joined the fight with us,
fiercest soldier holding the garage and porch,
falling in the sunlight,
rising to be slain again, again.....

afternoons went by;
Fridays came and went like colors in a stream,
summers, seasons all went by,

we never said a word about his dad.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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