The dinner table is silent,
only the clinging of silverware.
After his third shot of whisky,
he starts about school.
He asks me what I chose
in the same ways he asks me
if I really like tennis.
I explain
that my career is steady now,
going uphill,
successful.
He says that can change
at the next tournament.
The tears are creeping
and I listlessly say I’m full.
Now I sit at my desk,
writing,
hoping,
that the blurry words I hear
coming from him
aren’t about the hell
he has made my life.
