When I was a child
and Father used to come home
from the plant or the yard
and later on from the office

I used to run into the kitchen
where he sat reading the paper
and jump on him screaming
as I’ve been home all day
smashing trucks together in the back lot
and he needed to know how exciting that was

Sometimes he was unresponsive
even angered
but distant mostly

His face was a lump of frowns
His eyes were closing
hands etched with tight veins

Mother used to say that he had a hard day

I never understood what that meant
or why Father’s face was so long
and why he looked so tired
irritable and angry
Over very little

But now…
thirty years later
I get it.

oh yes,
now…

I know exactly what she fucking meant.