Don't Listen
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.
poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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