My Papa's Waltz - Theodore Roethke
The whiskey on your breath could make a small boy dizzy; but I hung on like death: such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans slid from the kitchen shelf; my mother's countenance could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist was battered on one knuckle; at every step you missed my right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time in my head with a palm caked hard by dirt, then waltzed me off to bed still clinging to your shirt.
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