18 | Linguist | Anxious resting face
I'm never too sure about my poetry so I'd really appreciate any kind of advice you wise and lovely people can offer :)
Written By: Helen Grant
April 25, 2015
It was actually many weeks before they twigged that something was Not Quite Right.
We were sly, you see. We blended in with exquisite craft, infallible expertise.
And they were so gullible.
We worked with them.
Bought their clothes.
Shopped with them, ate with them.
Our children played together in the English sunshine, next to the English roses.
And they never thought anything of it.
Not until that one time.
That one mistake.
When the words just slipped past the lips left ajar.
Coarse, foreign afronts that slipped over the burning garden fence and slapped those poor victims across the foreheads.
Our school places are unearned, our houses undeserved, our wages unwarrented
Our taxes unprofitable.
Our smiles are unwelcome,
Our shaking hands left unshaken
Our friendship called unwanted.
And we sit their in our little yellow brick house on their little white stuccoe street feeling
like ticks in a cat's ear.
I expect soon we shall have to move