Family Life

There's indentations,
on the chipboard wall.

From bedposts,
punched sex,
and addiction.

Take away menus,
on the door mat.
Glossing over red gasbills.

Her birthday card.

A worn keyhole is busted.
With burn marks and glue.

There's a carved name
on the doorframe.
Unfinished,
and uncontested.

The front step milk,
curdles sweetly.
From four days hot wind,
sparrow pecks,
and piss.

Crisp bags.
Chicken legs,
and chips.

Crunch the pavement.

There's torn photos,
in the dustbin.
A teddy bear with one ear.

There's a blood tranfusion.
In intensive care.

A little girl lost on the streets.

And shattered knuckles,
heading north.

This family life.