The Alcoholic Clock

He yawns and sits up in bed
reaches over and takes his first swig
Before morning feet hit the floor
his Methadone is fished out of the drawer
Morning begins as the bottle wets his lips
and he sips coffee casually commenting on my hips

The clock on the wall is forgotten
Last night’s vomit smells so rotten            
The brown liquid is the new hourglass
Another long day is in the forecast
Every hour equals one inch
My stomach turns to knots as I winch
I can tell time by that 1.75
It’s all I can do to survive
as he nurses the bottle with all five

Each inch consumed reveals his true self
Why can’t my Dad be somebody else
The pervert shows himself at half past the hour
I see in his eyes that I am his to devour
He kisses my neck as I sit at the table
like its nothing while holding his bagel

He asks me if I’ve ever seen his arsenal
yes, every night after the bottle loses ethanol
Once again the guns and knives are on display
As I start to walk away he begs me to stay
He puts the 38 in my hand and asks “how does that feel”
Silent thoughts tempt me that I try to conceal
Images of blood and brains on the wall
I could end this misery once and for all
How easy it would be to just pull the trigger
No jail time for me so I quickly reconsider