This was a very random poem that I scribble-typed yesterday in a flurry. Not so great really, very simply written, but I feel ashamed that I'm not contributing to this blog as much as I'd like to so:

The Distasteful Alibi

Gordon says he had rehearsals,
I think I ought to believe him.
He’s the dearest little boy, my own,
Sensitive, caring and a trifle shy.

But he is quiet all the evening;
He eats ravenously, speaks little.
I worry for him, my spot of joy,
He’s barely touching sixteen.

He retreats early, he needs his sleep.
He is gone before sunlight blushes.
I cannot bring myself to brush
His perfect, cold, odourless room.

Today Gordon is late again-
The doorbell chimes nine-fifteen,
I do not ask him where he went.
I lock myself up and cry into the linen.

On the morrow he starts to say
Something I’m not ready to hear:
“I’m in love,” he says “she’s a girl
I saw at the carnival fair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier
I was scared, I was not sure
If you would come to like her.
But she’s the one, I won’t retract.”

I try out a smile, I’m pleading.
“She’s my daughter hence.”
Of course I do not tell him
That things will never be the same.