The Interrogation Table

“Come sit down.”
Another interrogation,
at the kitchen table.

He was there,
waiting for me with the light on,
and a pack of Pall Malls.

Smoke drifted,
up from the giant glass ashtray.
He had been there waiting.

I sat down,
across from the young coal miner.
A terrifying man.

A soldier,
from the jungles of Vietnam.
A felon from prison.

A long life,
of fighting tough guys in the bars.
A well known Union man.

I’m guilty.
Always guilty before we start.
He questions anyway.

I try lies.
But they never work on my dad.
There is no way to hide

We’ve been here,
at this table a thousand times,
I’ll get grounded again.

I won’t learn.
I grew to be just like he was.
He tried to prevent that.

The table,
in the working man’s small kitchen,
rises up in my mind.

Any time,
I face more interrogation,
from a boss thinking tough.

They don’t scare.
Their intimidation falls flat.
Nothing scares like my dad.

That kitchen,
was a judgement hall,
where I received grounding.

But, escaped,
through reading books and my writing.
A gift that tough man gave.

He died young,
while I was still a living waste.
He never saw me change.

I sure hope,
to see him on a future day.
At a different table.

By: Chris Bunton

Chris Bunton is a writer, poet and artist from Southern Illinois.