Emily should play,

hanging around not caring

about the damage she has done

or the boys on Cowley Road

who care

not about the mask

she uses to appear hard, to seem

aloof to the propositions of undying

love, her reality warped, treated

to a future not intended for her

when we used to cuddle her as she fell

asleep on the lap and her glasses

slowly sliding down her button created nose;

Emily should play,

the Cowley Road calls

and a hundred miles away

I hear the sound of sobbing

in her mother’s stoic voice.

Ian D. Hall 2016