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Rubbing Fists

Rubbing Fists
 
Looking through windows of happy homes
Pain shooting through nerves and bones
Your own home, windows grotesque
No lights and no smiles
A sadness seen seeping through tiles
A sadness seen that lingers for miles
Sisters punished and brothers admonished
 
No childhood without its terrors
But a life of even more suffering
Grows around you
 
Quarrel raging across the table
A quarrel for the ages
Your mothers face on the table
Hidden by hands
This is no party, this is no game
The father rubs his fists on the tablecloth
To hide the nervousness that exists
 
No childhood without its terrors
Watching your father fall apart
At the kitchen table
 
Mother with dry mouth, wrinkled neck
Puffy hands, her domestic bliss wrecked
Nearly collapsing where she stands
As dreams turn into sand
 
Hide the nervousness that exists
By rubbing your fists
Monkey see and monkey do
 
No childhood without its terrors
But a life of even more suffering
Grows around you
 
Stealing out of the house
Looking at black houses and empty streets
Running as far as feet allow
You’ll never go back home now
You’ll never go back home now
 
 
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