Poem

Teenage Room
by Paul Wooldridge

My mother speaks in detail,
I avoid her tired gaze
and stare at local headlines,
folded double down the page.

She talks of calls and records,
staying strong and on the go.
I know I should be helping,
be of use, keep up the show.

I only want to slope off,
all alone, to my own room
and hide away in silence
seeking comfort in the gloom.

But there’s no place to run now,
no retreat to my warm bed,
for I have just turned thirty
and my father’s three days dead.