Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Don’t listen to him,
Gran said,

indicating
with a nod

of her head,
to Granddad

in the other room,
sitting by the fire

with his loose clothes
holding in bones.

You stood by the door,
peeping through

the thin crack
between door

and frame,
your young eyes

like a hawk’s,
catching the view:

Granddad lighting up
a cigarette,

to set him off
on the cough

and spit and phlegm,
and Gran’s hazel eyes

lighting up with anger
and her tongue

like a viper’s
ready to condemn.