Hot Water
Linda Goin
She dipped her
toes in the current,
sweat dripping
from her brow
down to soak her shirt collar.
Her drunk father hid
his whiskey
flasks inside empty
cereal
boxes, not
caring when the grands fixed bowls
for breakfast, they’d taste.
Three sick kids
later, she called him.
He was in
hot water.
But, she wasn’t cool, either,
with her gin on ice.