5 PM,
Burnt potatoes, roast drying in the oven,
I send my daughter to fetch him,
flip flops, yellow sun dress,
she cowers at the door
of the narrow dark tavern, fog of smoke,
bar stools, backs of loud laughing men
—work-stained denim and coveralls.
She whisper-asks for her Dad,
bartender yells "Sal, someone for you."
Silent meal tight with anger; more beers,
snoring on the couch, television blaring.

7 PM,
I fill the claw-foot bathtub,
bathe this crowd of crabby children,
alone,
read fairy princess stories
alone,
Now I lay me down to sleep prayers
alone—glasses of water, tucking in
goodnight kisses—alone.

12 AM,
I take his hammer,
his case of Iron City beer,
smash 24 bottles in the kitchen sink—
misshapen amber shards
attack my hands and arms,
foam fills the sink.
I kick the empty cardboard case into a corner and
go to bed, stinking of beer.

3 AM,
Hushing a crying baby at the top of the stairs,
I hear him in the kitchen,
imagine him picking every shard and sliver
from the worn-out enamel sink
with its chinked black craters;
I hope his hands are pocked with splintered glass.
In the morning, I find a Comet-clean sink.

6 AM,
I hear him getting ready for work,
overalls and denim shirt, silver-domed lunch bucket.
I hope he's tired, hung-over-head-aching
as he walks to the corner where men wait
for the trolley to the steel mill.

7PM
Ignoring the rumbling and shrieking
of children fighting over
who should wash dishes,
I retreat to our bedroom, lock the door,
Lullaby-rock the latest baby.
On our dresser, half hidden by
dirty underwear and costume jewelry:
wedding portrait young and beautiful,
love minus 8 children
love minus barrels
upon barrels of beer:
my perfect satin gown, long buttoned sleeves,
short curls, tiara and veil,
tiny gold cross and secret smile,
head on his shoulder,
his gray pin-striped suit, white boutonnière,
dimpled smile, thick, wavy hair
blissfully, tenderly
innocent.