beneath the roofs of ogres

as a boy it wasn’t
enough the refrigerator
was barren
as you stood with your
head half inside
of full shelves
by then your father’s
meaty hand appeared
the heavy door clipping
your skull as it slammed
and he cursed you
for the electric bill
all the way back
to your cold room
as you curled up on
busted springs
and just waited
for the serrated
sentences to stop

Rob Plath, contrary to popular belief, is not yet under the jurisdiction of the worms. His latest book of poems Batter the Keyboard Like a Raptor Is Behind Yr Back is available from Laughing Ronin Press. See more of his work at: Read other articles by Rob.