Punk

The quilt covered walls
gasped loudly when I realized
I had never called Grandma
a cunt,
But I should have when the runners
had finally come to a decision and the
geraniums had gone to Mom, the paintings
to Dad and the antique thimble collection
to the disparaged adolescent sulking
in a putrid pool of self-loathing
imagination, gunshots and bloody bathwater.