Tom Painting

Myopic

If the assemblage of empty booze bottles I enshrined on my bedroom dresser gave him concern he never said a thing. Southern Comfort, Seagram’s Seven, Cherry Vodka. He was a workingman and probably figured me cut from the same cloth. Truth be told, I never once missed delivering my morning papers on time, hung over and in the dead of a northern winter.

blood blister
the reckless hand
of my father