Leviathan
The stick of sweet tobacco on his leathered hand and the sick of smokey tar on his liquored tongue.
He may not have been a healthy man.
His daughter’s blistered lip split by his sunburnt hand.
Her mother, linen-thin, whipped by his twice-barbed tongue.
He may not have been a loving man.
His sons’ guarded tricks learned from his losing hand.
Their wives resigned and ticked by his jealous tongue.
He may not have been a settled man.
Grandpa was a land-bound leviathan.
