Lost Child In My Own Home

In her home I suffer, Rationed food and rationed wood, Bread slices and rationed butter, Scorns and all the words they utter, Are some deepest of secrets you won't hear. For I take that only form, Of a lost child in my own home, Assuming this has been the only norm, Of having water and a plate of corn. Her eldest kid sits by me and asks, Do you have anything you own, No, I say with a little frown, Do you have parents, No, they are long gone. Do we do you bad, No, I say.