Charlie scribbles his thoughts in exclamation marks,
He’s just learnt how to use them at school,
And so adds them to the end of every sentence,
Even if it doesn’t quite fit!
Trying to ignore the demonic mould in his bedroom,
He draws and writes,
And wonders if it will eventually swallow him alive.
Two heptathletes competed again tonight,
Throwing insults like shotputs in an empty arena,
Sometimes, aunt Sheenagh would come and quiet the place,
But she’s been away for a while now,
And well, they have to get along somehow.
This round: council tax and that forbidden name,
Then the food bin of old sin was brought from outside,
Dumped in the middle of the living room with a muffled thud,
The crawling lid was flicked open and they began to drag five years’ worth of muck and foolish mistakes,
Worsening the chafe,
Splatting them on the walls and carpet,
Throwing them in each other’s face.
As for Charlie, he doesn’t understand the things of adults.
How could he?
He’s just a little boy.
They order him to go to his room,
His simple obedience like a small candlelight in that mottled house.