Escape
by Cheryl Ann Farrell
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The ol' man snored Through his daily afternoon nap After filling his gut with little regard The steam iron hissed at me And I imagined a salon facial The starch scorched; the ironing board creaked The smell of fear rose and fell in tandem With his heaving chest. I wish my mother would take care of him. He's the only man I know. I wonder if they all smell that way The grocer, the butcher, the candlestick maker They all seem to ooze Whether it’s too much smile or just too much sweat. The iron hisses again and spits scalding water Across my hand For a moment he looks vulnerable For a moment I see a way out. |
