My Daddy Knows How to Drink

My Daddy knows how to drink,
barreling down the boulevard,
eyelids drooping behind the wheel,
a half smile and a nod to those passing by.

Christian music blaring on the radio,
escaping through the windows,
rolled down to catch the breeze;
to catch the wondering stares.

His white T-shirt blowing in the hot air,
he throws back another swig of hooch.
Checking the rear view mirror for the police,
no one is following. He sneaks another gulp.

In full dark he steers around the culvert
and honks the horn for a joke.
Oh, he’s a joker, my drunken Daddy;
just wish he could find his way home.

At home we wait. His dinner is cold.
I’m in bed when the back door flies open.
Angry are the words my Mother hurls
as he shatters his plate, and leaves.
She is crying again.

I peek out the window to see him staggering
back to his car. He starts the engine.
He looks up at me in my window,
Catches my wide eyes with his
and drops his head, shaking it slowly.

He takes a deep breath, then another gulp,
the brown bag crinkling around the bottle.
It’s empty so he tosses it out the window.
He peels out of the dirt strip in the grass
that we call a driveway.

I don’t know when I will see him again;
all I know is I’ve made him angry.
I crinkle up my little face and tears stream down.
I crawl back in bed, my head under the covers
so Mother doesn’t hear me crying again.