Family Portrait

It is a horrible view from here.
As each year races by,
The family discovers less and less about each other.
It is sad.
I am sad-
Better off in a closet with this dusty wooden frame.
1954 shall disappear as fast as my relevance has.
The daughter arrives to dispose of her
Below-average assignments and smokes a lofty cigarette.
The son comes in sight,
Returning a gun under the floor’s loose slab
Of glossy wood.
The Man of the House isn’t much of a man-
Home for the evening to ingest his usual
Glasses of whiskey.
The Mrs. returns,
Smelling of an unusually rare cologne
And too dazed to cook dinner.
The same “Man” of the House begins his daily routine
Of showing off his drunkenness while causing a scene
For no one but his wife.
But she refuses to dance.
And so does the daughter when she enters,
But she has no choice; pinned to the ground with no pants.
The Mrs. finally chooses
To take a step or two with the Man.
As she lifts up that loose slab
To palm the gun in her hand.
Daughter screams, father drools;
The Mrs. puts two in the back of his head.
“That’s enough of that,” she said.
She ponders in empty sound and,
Smells the scent of that rare perfume.
The daughter cannot move;
Half-clothed and still smelling of cigarettes.
The son appears in the vista,
Trapped dead within the sight of devastation.
The Mrs. spoke for her last gasps of life:
“Those heat-seeking bullets revived your father’s memory
Of how he caused the heartache for this family.”
The boy is slow; too confused to distinguish,
He can never stop the Mrs. from pulling
That trigger again.
BANG!
He looks at me hanging against the wall,
Realizing how empty the photo
Really is.