Any Friday At 6-30 Pm Prose-Poem

I'm playing seafaring games on the marble table, sketching between the blue striations of the stone, a slab that resembles an ocean to my young mind. I draw armadas and stick figure Spaniards, foes that fall into shark-infested waters. Cannons roar silently. Mum is at the sink drinking. Soon dad will be home, he will bring with him, two magazines; a ‘Woman's Own’ and the ‘T.V. Times’. He'll have a bottle of sherry for mum, a ‘Mars Bar’ and a Superman comic for me. Clock hands crawl nearer. It seems that the terraced house trembles, slightly at first, but gradually the shaking gets so I can hardly stay on the stool. I have to hold tight to the table. Oceans tip over. High waves slosh back and forth in my mind. My own stick-figure shudders, teeth chattering together. My mouth begins to mew like a seagull. Mum looks around, yells for me to stop - I can't it's 6.30 P.M. on any Friday, and for a while we all will be together in this one rocky boat. ~~