Children at Play.

Outside children play, but you
Are stuck inside, sitting at the window,
Peering down at them in their world
Of make believe and hopscotch
And skip rope and ballgames.

You wonder what it feels like
To play with others, and not
Be alone with only yourself
To talk with or to, with the forever
Voice of your parents rowing
In the next room or downstairs,
And the occasional scream or shout
Or furniture being thrown about.

You sit on the window seat and stretch
Out your legs and wiggle your toes,
And try and forget the numbness in your
Behind, and the memory of your dead sister
Olga found stiff in her cot, and try to
Forget the vulgar words your father uses
When drunk, or try to remember happier
Times when he’d let you climb his lap
And play horse on his knee, and your
Mother’d laugh and clap her hands
And her eyes shoot flames, and you
Rising and sinking on the make believe
Horse, all gone now of course.

Outside the children play games,
But you are alone, sitting and thinking,
Remembering the shouting, recalling
The beating, but never once do the good
Memories fade or go away, but like
The children outside with their games,
So in your mind the good memories play.