The Trouble With Knowing
I wonder what she's thinking
whilst she pretends to watch T.V
She's sat on that same spot
on the same sofa for more years
than I care to remember
gradually not caring about
the seven long hairs that grow
from her chin or the stains
all over her clothing from
last weeks dinner
She sips her cider
I watch
She sips
I ask: "where is he?"
"He's in bed." She answers,
not removing her eyes from
the commercials.
"Pour me another, will you?
and open the window"
She is almost robotic.
I can see past the piss stained
mess that has become her
well enough to know she
is scared as hell.
I open the window
The breeze bounces past my cheeks
"He can't open the windows
anymore" she whispered-
"He can't do anything"
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