the abuse
The abuse
On the ground floor of the house
A piano tuner had moved in
The window was painted, and the door
to the road locked
I was about 8 years old, standing
outside alone, I didn't have many friends
As I had spent wartime years on a farm
I had been sent there since I was ill
and the youngest, mother, stuck in
poverty couldn't cope with me as
She had my brother and sister to take
care of also
Suddenly, the piano tuner opened up
asked me to come in, and the abuse
happened
When back on the road again, I was
confused and also ashamed of myself
feeling guilty
I was angry, but never told anyone
but carried the guilt inside me
I was going to beat him to a pulp
I was 19 years of age, sitting on the bus
going into town when the bus stopped
A passenger boarded, yes, it was him
a weedy little man who had difficulty
getting up the high step, by instinct
I got up, grabbed his arm, and got him
into the bus, my hatred had turned into
compassion
Not once did this pervert look at me
He knew who I was
For me, it was the freedom of not
feeling guilty of what had happened
Why should I beat up this pathetic
little man
My childhood was over; life beckoned
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
