I lie on the floor where his right hand <br />has left me, the wreckage of his dinner <br />around me. The girls are out and the <br />boys are safe, the waiting now is over <br /> <br />The long walls are papered blue, the <br />short ones are papered pink. A narrow <br />border runs around the walls the windows <br />and the door. At each corner it coils <br />around and back in stupid pointless circles. <br /> <br />He is wrecking the kitchen but above that <br />noise I can hear the radio talking back. <br />All over the country people can hear that sound. <br />In the name of the living Christ can no one <br />out there hear me scream <br />in pork and cold potatoes?<br /><br />Sean Joyce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-view-from-below/
