ABCs

you were lonesome

but babies don't know that word

they know how to cry until their parents come

you lay in your crib and you wailed

chubby fingers reaching in the dark, expecting Mama

but Mama was plugged in, tuned out

fingers to temples because your noise pierced

and Daddy was already gone, Mama

didn't teach you the word for him,

though sometimes her crying did 

you plugged in, tuned out

because she told you something was missing

but not that he had a name

your father, the asshole, good-for-nothing

she told you, we don't need him

but left a hole gaping in your chest

something you pawed at when telemarketers

asked for the man in the house

or on the third Sunday of every June

your mother doesn't believe in "Hallmark holidays" anyway

sentimentality was never her strong suit,

nor was teaching you baseball or getting home

before midnight every night because she 

stayed late, worked hard to support you

she told you, but you could smell the whiskey

Mama was working hard to form 

her words and not paw at 

her own gasping chest