Tonight's Poet Corner: Six O'Clock

Six O'Clock
by Belinda Roddie

Father had a shaky grip on the pickle jar,
and when he dropped it, the brine exploded
in a big, brown-yellow fountain. I tried to
clean up the glass, but he wouldn't let me
because I was barefoot and he was wearing boots.

Upstairs, my sister was having sex with an
older man who had celebrated his birthday
yesterday with her in Berkeley. They had
gone to a Thai restaurant and made fun
of the waitress's hair and accent.

And no one talked about my brother,
who lay near catatonic on the couch
with the TV bellowing, a bag of
potato chips on the floor and a large
capsule of painkillers in the crook of his arm.