Marching

She marches, head high
Smiling, rose stained lips curling
She pretends the grey sky is blue
As she looks across the bridge.
Textbooks under one arm
Menthol cigarette in one hand
She wonders
If he can see her
If he watches her study
Straighten her hair
Get drunk
And fall into bed.


Every so often
She catches something on the air
That tells her he might.
She wonders
That if he shakes his head
At her self indulgence
Sad songs at 3am
Staring at his grainy photo
Relishing the liquid pouring
Basking in the release.
She puts on a show for him
Buries herself in work.

She watches her manners
And speaks of him like she always did.
She scrubs the kitchen
Wearing that apron
And laughs loud
Hoping he'll hear.
She marches with purpose.
She marches to get through
She will march until she sees him
Again.
She is me.
He is my father.