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Friday Was A Bad Day.

Is that man really my father?
He bathed me in soap bubbles.
He smells of urine.
He saw me safely across the road.
He doesn't know where he lives.
He put food on the table for his family.
He can't remember what he ate five minutes ago.
Is that hunched over scarecrow really my Dad?

Is it ok for poetry to be used as a release of frustrations?

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  • Life is a Beach gold member
    September 13, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    Very touching. In a few words you said so very much.
    Very good Shirley! Pam