graceful movements
like a dancer as she paces,
one way,
then the other,
hands wringing,
less mindful of stains,
they are all stains,
this threadbare carpet,
this threadbare blanket,
this life, hanging,
by barely a thread.

Mindful of her mothers eye,
the child crouches in the corner,
she will be sent to bed,
if she is caught,
and mama has eyes,
like a hawk.

Just to be there is important,
though mama will never know,
If she is real quietlike,
to go to sleep is to leave her,
all alone,
so quietly she crouches,
guarding mama’s heart
with her eyes.

She waits and wonders,
if this will be the good daddy,
or the bad daddy,
the good daddy is just as drunk,
but he laughs and kisses,
happily giggles and chortles,
sometimes he cries crocodile tears,
sorry for an hour.

The mean daddy,
makes  her shiver,
cause he uses mama’s hair,
as a weapon,
to keep her still,
as he breathes into her soul,
rank fumes,
and rapid fire threats,
making mama beg for release,
though he doesn’t seem,
any happier than mama,
about the situation.

She crouches there,
on the threadbare stair,
as mama paces,
like a dancer,
waiting for her cue,
her part to be played,
threadbare carpet,
threadbare blanket,
life hanging,
by a thread,
 as she guards mama’s heart.

Published by B

I am B (call me BB and I will gut you) I like daisies, books, and men who understand the wisdom of Kermit the Frog. I refer to my favorite person as TMW5T Why? because if he had 6 I'd call him TMW6T, duh!!

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