My Walk To Work Poem by Tony Mushrow

My Walk to Work.

Outside the paint flaked door,
Discarded cans, and broken bottles lie.
A small face peers from a window,
Is that a tear?
That I can spy.

I can only guess the suffering,
The shouts, the fists, the fights.
The tea’s of toast and noodles,
The long cold lonely nights.

She gets told to be quiet,
To be silent as a mouse.
To keep those awful secrets,
And to keep them,
in this house.

This little face stays with me,
As I walk to do what’s right.
To be they’re in her corner,
The next time the bell rings,
For the fight.



End.