Gary Allen
Pay-day
She is smoking
the crumpled Woodbine butts
she keeps in the narrow vase.
Her eyes are closed
fingers massage the temples -
it is late.
His supper is dried hard
in the oven -
I take my bible
over to her
ask if she will test me
on the Sunday lesson?
She grabs the book
from my hands
tosses it into the fire
takes me by the scruff
upstairs and throws me
into the bulbless room.
There is no handle
to open the door on the inside:
I sit on the floor
listen to the singing
from the barracks social-club
the blaring television below.
Page(s) 105
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