I fear holes
punched in plaster,
the anger
that lived and breathed,
seethed,
within his house.
The cigarette smoke
that curled around his fist,
which was ready
to strike
at the slightest provocation,
that yellowed the walls
and stained the ceiling
the color of sickness.
Ashes smeared
on every surface,
ashtrays filled
to overflowing,
dropping their contents
onto the dismal,
dark brown carpet
where they would lay,
until he yelled at me
to pick them up.
Glasses flung and shattered,
shards not near
as sharp
as his words and hands.
Linoleum cracked and peeling,
gathering West Texas dirt
in its abundant crevices,
which stepmom scrubbed,
on her knees,
madly
and in vain,
with a toothbrush
in the dark hours
of the morning.

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