A wooden chair sits in the corner
gently swaying- for she has just left
a child’s cheek pressed to her shoulder-
holding on as she awaits the theft

and the lamp, it stands alone
the only witness, her fantasy-
being childish, for of course she is just a child-
longing to be all she cannot be

the set of drawers watch in disgust
as she tosses aged shirts onto the floor-
escaped convict, she plagues her attentive room
altering she who she was before

yet the mother grasps her with determined arms
lips lightly grazing the top of her head
a silent goodbye, a surrender in advance
but still moments away from “go to bed”

A chair is a passing place of rest
one will stop along the way
a child sits upon her mother’s lap
to wait for the approaching day