The hanged tramp

I met a girl

when I was 14

at a caravan park

where we camped

once.

She was living

in a tent

with a whore

for a mother.

 

She was my type –

kind

dark haired

fair skinned

broken.

 

I fell in love

watching

as her mother

choked her

for talking

to me.

 

She pierced her

with insidious

insults

as her hand

squeezed

around her frail

neck

repeatedly

glancing at me

begging me

to help.

 

I asked my father

if we could take her

with us

when we leave

so her mother

couldn’t hurt her

anymore.

He said

no.

 

She was standing

at the park’s exit

with a black eye

alone

waiting for us

to drive by

so she could wave

me goodbye.

 

We cried

as we waved

our requiems

to each other –

my face pressed

against

the rear window

of her

sailing ship

as

she hanged.

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s