It's 3 am
the constant clangor
of the phone is routine.
Mom laments to Dad
with a sniffle
here and there.
She needs us to rescue her.
My brother and I awake
from our bunk bed.
I grab
my brown blanky
the only solace
in this time of confusion.
I slip on
my velcro light up shoes and
dart out the screen door
into our blue Ford Aero Star.
Half asleep I watch
Dad's vigilant, yet somber expressions
through the front mirror.
He catches my glimpse and
slips a grin to reassure me
everything is ok.
We get to downtown Canton and
veer into the desolate
Save-a-Lot parking space.
From the horizon
Mom staggers to our mini van.
Sliding doors swing open and
hard vodka accompanied by
mossy Jon Tu' perfume
converge into the frigid air.
A brown bag partnered with a
plastic Speedway cup
Retain her jaundice hands.
A marble of black and blue
paint tragedy across her canvas.
Although I am only six
I know my mother has a problem.
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