Monday, April 11, 2016

Comparative Genre to Witness

Compare this prose poem to yesterday's.  Which do you prefer?

Beer, Broken Bottles, and Blah

Every weekend after payday, I’d lay in my bed and listen to my parents bicker.  It was the same old stuff, over and over again.  “You did this…  You did that… I should’ve…  I shouldn’t have…  You shouldn’t have…  You should have…  Your father said… Your brothers don’t …  If…”   Blah, blah, blah, and blah until I blahed myself to sleep.  Blahing, crying, hoping, talking, praying, but mostly feeling sorry for myself, until the sandman came.  There was one occasion when there was no arguing.  Dad had come home late with no paycheck.  Instead, in his arms were two big grocery bags, filled with big bottles of booze.  He never made it through the door.  Mom snatched a neck of one of the beer bottles and smashed it over Dad’s head.  She was screaming.  I was screaming.   And blood was streaming out of Dad’s head, as he lay on the floor moaning.  The floor was covered in a layer of beer, blood, and broken glass.  He was trying to get up but he was slipping and sliding and staggering.  Mom was calling the doctor.  In those days, doctors made house calls.  By the time I helped Dad get in a chair, the doctor was there and I was out of there.  It was Dr. Bain—one of my classmates’ fathers.  I was over his house once; I doubt if he’d remember me.  But just in case, I hid in my bedroom.  Specifically, my closet--a proven place for pity parties. The doctor didn’t ask why or anything.  He just sewed Dad up (no anesthesia needed) and departed.  No one spoke.  Dad slept in that same chair at the table.  Mom cleaned the mess up, “blah, blah, blahing,” under her breath.  And I waited for the merciful sandman.  

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