the big white moon shines like I'm on a movie set.
My father used to show me the man in the moon,
tracing the shape with his fingertip.
I thought the man looked more
like Winnie-the-Pooh than a man.
My father did, too, kind of bellied
and blundering. That was before
I knew what drunk was.
How many times did we wind,
as a family, my father behind the wheel,
a belly-full of wine and vodka.
It all looked like water and Shirley Temples
to my young eyes. Why were my parents
quarreling? I pretended to sleep
so my father would lift me from the back
seat, carry me to bed, after we pulled,
again, safely into the driveway.
The moon looks like the white rings
his iced drinks left on our wooden table.
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