Sunday, March 29, 2009



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

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