The Frightened by Kevin Reid

I am not a silent poet

At the fisted toilet door
his son fidgets with his pyjamas,

Whats wrong with you? he shouts.
into his little face.

No one rises to this man, no one
from the nicotine living room.

His stomach feels their numb reply.
His son froze, clutching his teddy

beneath a bare bulb.
Crouching to his level, his eyes

penetrating, he whispers
If they ask, just tell them…

View original post

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.