Warring Parents

Even before I had learned to talk 

There were people in my house 

That I was forced to call dad and mom 

Lounging ironing machines 

Fingers and irons pointing at each other 

Where a tender hold was supposed to be 

A violent hurt was breathing 

Where a warm hug was going to take place 

Vitriolic slangs were heaving 

A bed that was to know love 

Knew only faint seething