III
When I was thirteen
And came in a half hour past their curfew
She called me a whore
And as he walked me to my bedroom
His big arm holding me tight he said
No you’re not
With the covers tight against my chin
My eyes open wide to the grim dark
I listen to their anger
She with the nagging blow
He with the tired retort
Today I still grieve his passing
And today she’s in the nursing home
Waiting for the call from me
That will never come
Musings that drift from the desktop out into the ether.
About Me
- Poet's Platform
- Stanwood, Washington, United States
- Mostly spend my days writing. Also researching my family history which I'm putting down into a narrative that I hope to publish...before I die !! The project is like eating liver, the more you chew the bigger and bigger it gets in your mouth. Like to garden a bit and travel.
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