Jo Pearson
On The Ropes
It were glove cold that night
the family split like an atom
we held onto each other tight
clinging like limpets
and the respect we had for them
ran like an old mascara
down from my eyes
with the tears and insults
till I was a sad old clown
fooled beyond doubt.
And I knew then
I’d wander lonely as a starling
on the outside
skin buckled up broken
punch sore knuckles
from a drunk punch mind
in the final round.
So much shadow boxing
pretty pock marked pattern
Jackson Pollock pink bingo dabber
left hook, right hook
jab, jab, jibe.
Saw the hate in her eyes
had made her look wild
reflected in the shine of the lightbulb.
Death about to happen
I were always a quiet child
counting to ten
wishing crockery down the rubbish shute
were someone else’s row.
Page(s) 33
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