OTHER MEN WOULD CRY FOR.(Brief Article)(Poem)

 
   Our father was a savage man. 
   His middle name was blood. 
   Worked at Swift's, the poultry Auschwitz, 
   slitting throats as they spun his way. 
   His face was scarlet by 9 a.m. 
   He came home in flagrant whiff 
   of hemoglobin and wet feathers. 
   His knife arm was thick as a vine 
   in Nicaragua when he laid it on 
   our arborite table with cigarettes 
   for supper and rye whisky for snack. 
   I saw him go down cellar once 
   and yank out a bad tooth 
   with a length of twine and pliers. 
   He was a ...