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…

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