On nights they went drinking
Bill and my dad
hit most of the bars in midtown Memphis
and when they came home
around three in the morning
drunk as something that fell in the river
my mother and I
would put them to bed
certain they’d never wake up
before noon.
But every morning I’d smell bacon frying;
I’d see Bill in the kitchen,
the waffle iron on.
One or two, he would ask
and I’d tell him, two.
He’d give me a wink.
Atta girl, he would say.
If my dad ever had a best friend,
it was Bill.
I thought of him as my uncle back then,
and if he had a fault,
it was how much he drank,
and what he became each time that he did.
One night I tried on a dress that I made.
It was black with silver pearl buttons in back,
and I am no seamstress
but I was proud.
I stood at the mirror turning this way and that.
The doorbell rang,
it was Bill, he was drunk.
Bill was mean when he drank.
He laughed in that way only drunks can laugh.
My mom and my dad tried to put him to bed,
but he stared at me.
He lifted his head.
You look like a goddamn whore, he said.
I woke up the next morning and smelled bacon frying.
Bill was in the kitchen.
The waffle iron was on.
Hey sleepyhead. One, or two.
It’s easy to forget what falls in the river.
Easier, I think, each time that you do.
Two, I replied, and he gave me a wink;
hard to forget what men do when they’re drinking.
Atta girl, he said, as if we were dreaming.