Crisis
The radio is on,
still no one is listening.
Shouting rises to the rafters.
Mother says there is too little
money and soon too little food,
promises are wasted words.
My father says the streets beat
you down, make you feel like nothing.
At supper everything is quiet,
we eat fried mush and instant potatoes.
My father lights up a cigarette,
walks out in the yard,
looks up at the sky,
believes we could not love him.