Forward to next poem

Back to last poem

Back to Gary Allen page

The trap
Her life goes by like a short train
what did any of us do?

we knew she was angry, we knew she was alone
but we did nothing.
A cousin will give her second hand clothes
and second hand holidays
her father carries a drawing of Santa Claus
in his pocket book
cheeks red as blood, beard white as innocence –
he kept it all these years
an uncashed betting-slip.
What’s left is almost over –
you got no farther than a wet square
daytime television, a slipped glass in the sink
a candy striped hat at a wedding
a boy with a limp
you were never meant to get anywhere:
we could have done something –
tripped the wire, sprung the hare.