Bleak Mid-Winter

On Christmas Eve when I was ten, a sweet
explosion raged. My father threw a plum
through rusted kitchen screen. He stamped his feet
on chocolate squares. We children stood by dumb.
The clustered grapes, he gobbed and smashed against
the spattered walls. Hard candies hit like shot
gun blasts and gave eruption to his angst.
He grabbed and squeezed each orange, picked a spot--
unloaded yuletide cannon balls around
our derelict Christmas tree. His fury leapt.
His cursing filled the house with purple sound.
We children hid and watched while mother wept.
Then calm set in. Chagrin turned into sorrow.
We swept and cleaned, eyes upon tomorrow.