At restaurants my father ordered food
yet seldom ate. Instead he boozed,
occasionally beer though mostly hard liquor —
martinis, manhattans, whiskey sours.
I often wanted to steal his appetizers
— clams casino, oysters Rockefeller —
& wouldn’t, because even tasting provisions
he chose seemed to imply participation
in his hostile warped depraved universe
of which I wanted nothing except release,
passage to far away where he might
no longer try to impose his will on my
juvenile rebellious outraged self.
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