MATILDA ROBINSON

Trigger Warning: This poem contains themes of domestic violence

The bare branches create shadows on the path,

Summer heat rises from the tar road, 

Burning the bare feet of the children that run past.

The early morning brings less people,

Still, he tries to cling to any conversation he starts,

Holding tight till they let go,

The world passes by, too busy to talk,

Walking by, eyes focused on the path ahead. 

Piles of forgotten objects make the quiet street busy,

Pigeons pick at plastic bags full of wasted food,

Chairs missing legs, dolls with no hands to hold,

Plates and bowls hold dirt in their cracks. 

A cream couch turned on its side soaks up the morning dew,

A bike's front wheel flat, overused,

Showing a life once lived, no longer needed,

Just the growing pile and the man who sits beside.

The job that once consumed him is all he wishes for now,

Sitting blinded by the stark white walls and square computer screens,

The people around him trying to climb the ladder,

Higher and higher till they could no longer see him below.

He fell further away from them than he thought,

Before, lonely, but surrounded by others,

Now, lonely, sinking into a worn cardboard box,

He looks up to meet any wandering eyes, they pass by.

Leaving his cardboard box breathing in whiskey and cigarettes in the sunlight,

Sucking each breath in, each one harder than the last,

Ageing faster than the children that ride their bikes across the suburban streets,

Lined with the eucalyptus trees they climbed, scabbing their hands and knees on their way up.

A mother comes out from the run-down house he slept near the night before,

Handing him a sandwich, some water and a warm smile,

While leaving he hears the children's conversations covered in possibilities, 

Wondering where he might sleep tonight.

He thinks often of his mother, unfulfilled with her life,

Leaving behind their perfect home, filled with

Books on shelves and dishes in the sink,

With bright blue walls and heights measured against the doorframe.

With home cooked meals and conversations of the days that were had,

With grass stains on knees from playing backyard cricket, 

With goodnight kisses and cuddles so tight he saw stars in his eyes,

With her no longer there all he had were the stars in the sky.

Over the next few years his teachers noticed,

How he would hide between the pages of the fantasy books, 

In the lands of princes, choices and happy endings, 

Away from his home that now had broken dishes in the sink.

Shattered glass scattered the kitchen floor,

His blood covered his fathers fist,

The summer breeze blew through the moth chewed curtains,

His screams unheard by those that passed by.

Now, reaching the small shop with the brown haired girl who always smiles,

He asks for a diet coke, she asks where he’s been,

The shop is filled with overpriced snacks, summer heat and her kind smile,

He uses his last few coins but she pushes them back into his hand.

Met once again with warm eyes, he forces his dry lips into a smile like hers,

Something he hadn’t done for a long while.