I observe him smash his beer bottle

against my craven mutt from

my safe haven under the room stairs.

Cracked mugs, leaning pictures, couch cushions

thrown across the room-- all within my limited view.

Linoleum groans, signaling like a spy

reporting to its officer, his exit

to the hall closet, where the liquor's stored.

A worn, faded teddy champions me against

disloyal sobs that betray me to him with

the notice a general gives a private first-class.

Overhead, the stairs creak grudgingly.

I prepare to thrust the teddy forward in defense;

my childish fancy makes her a six-foot knight

in burnished mail with a tremendous sword,

standing akimbo, ready to advocate.

A gasping moan emits from our front door

as it opens enough to allow someone to flee.

I leaned forward, hoping to see his bowed back.

Instead, I witness my timorous mother slam

the door with a loud crash, announcing her belated retreat,

like the lone survivor of the Light Brigade's final charge.

He bungles his return with a drunken lurch.

I force myself farther back, hoping to remain unnoticed,

spilling colored glass marbles that I'd hid days before.

Caught, our eyes connect for a second,

long enough for the battle's advantage to change.

He swigs from his beer bottle, and I