By Steven Timothy
She walks on edge, pushing a pram, rattling rear wheel.
Broken, it is as her.
A quivering hand. A blistering cold, she continues.
Not to be hugged, nor to be free.
It is he who decides, with a stern hand.
Choice is his but today hers. Struggling on against her nerves.
The bottle tumbles to the road, her dream slowly corrodes.
It’s him, it’s him ‘look it’s dada, it’s dada.
She walks on edge pushing a pram.
Rattling rear wheel, broken, it is as her.