Later

We drop you at home,

young girl –

at your mother’s makeshift fence,

the small room being built upon,

the brave attempt

at life’s dignity:

next door the guys are drinking

their first-thing-in-the-morning-beer;

I could be amongst them,

me and all the friends from Cannery Row,

but my now eyes

see a hand upon stained walls,

their house-steps dirty grey,

the toddler lost in her eyes.

What’ll be going on here

by half-past twelve,

or when darkness falls?

 - Brian Walter