Box Springs
by Fawn Cannon
I lay here, yellow, and smelling of urine,
On a cold concrete floor.
I hear the pitter-patter of small feet,
Seeking refuge, but I have no arms,
To hold her. From the fists,
That chase her.
I listen to her prayers,
As she kneels beside me,
But I am no god or angel,
With power to answer them.
I hear her laughter, though infrequent,
But I am no doll or game,
which she can play with.
Joys which every child should know.
I feel her bruised body,
Often pounded upon in drunken rage.
She sleeps a troubled sleep,
But I offer no comfort,
For I have no sheets with which,
To cover her shivering body.
I lay here, on the cold concrete floor,
Nothing more than an old,
Waste of space;
But to her,
I am
Everything.
