I read a story I shouldn't have read.
It appeared before me, and my eyes,
suddenly, drew to the inkwell of his
tragedy with its one line eight words.
"I was four when my father hit me."
Like this I waited for him to appear;
I stood at my post, keeping
my gaze from the following prose,
that next stanza of fear—
that biography told in confidence
to one not meant to know,
who sits here now, silent
as a grave.
I asked if he was okay.
I wrote this at school while I was stamping narratives.
