In His Chair
He sat alone in his own little chair
Twiddling thumbs, matted, greased hair
Child with kind eyes, a gentle being
Of his life, still clearly it was in the Spring.
A single parent, no Dad to lead
Alone was the lad, to dress and to feed
Most days she labored, six until six
The TV his parent, his life in those pics.
He grew into anger, direction so muddled
Missing a touch, or a warm gentle cuddle
What will become of such a sad life
So empty of love, abundant with strife.
He sat alone in his own little chair
Twiddling thumbs, matted, greased hair
The boy with wild eyes, a violent being
Of his life, still clearly it was in the Spring.
For his arrival, another chair's ringing.
Copyright © David Brooks | Year Posted 2016
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