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Where’s the kid? Kirkehuse
asks. She’s in bed, she’s sleeping,
Mother says. About time; never
knew a kid to yak so much. She’s just

a child. She’s a yakker and she talks
too much. Mother cuddles up close
to Kirkehuse on the sofa as he sips
his booze. You’re too soft with her;

she gets away with things. When I
was a kid I kept quiet and did as I
was told and if I didn’t my old man’d
make sure I knew what’d happen if

I didn’t, Kirkehuse says. Mother kisses
his stubbly cheek. I try, she mutters.
Well, you don’t try hard enough.
The kid just yaks and thinks she knows

things she doesn’t. Kirkehuse looks at
Mother’s head of hair. He kisses her.
And what was that about the history
lesson, eh? She thinks we don’t know

about the Kennedys? Mother pulls at
the hem of her dress; he sips his booze.
She’s just trying to show she’s good at school,
Mother says. Kirkehuse pulls a face.
If she were my kid she’d know her place.

poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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