A Vison of My Father

My father is mad,
screaming
F**K!
because some
melted lip balm
spilled on his pants.
He gets out of the car,
shouting obscenities
as he heads towards
the front door.

I wonder what the
neighbors think.

Everytime he shouts,
it's like a razor,
cutting a little piece
of me away.
The cut barely heals
before he's at it again.
He may as well hit me,
to give me a
better excuse to hurt.
He says he loves us,
my sisters and I,
but how can he?,
if he insists on
pushing us to exhaustion
trying to please him,
so he won't blow another fuse.

But he puts on a
calm front in public,
pleasing even us,
making us proud to
have such a nice dad,
like everyone says he is.
As if the look he has
when he walks
back to the car,
climbs in,
and says

"Let's try this again",
will help
our broken family,
any.