I am coming down the stairs,

I am five, six, or seven,

the lime green woodchip walls clash

with the grey flowery stair runner,

the coat pegs too high.

Even standing tippy toes on a chair

I cannot reach.

The Bakelite radio spews pop

from it’s gaping mesh mouth,

“Where’s your momma gone?”

chirps out.

Fear grips my guts,

as the tinny tune provides a rhythm,

for him to polish his shoes.

Descendants – March 2017

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm