In my father’s office room

there is a little girl in grubby clothes 

and she will always be there, 

laughing and hiding under the table 

with the charts and maps and papers

with her scabby knees clasped 

against her chest 

next to the cupboard with a thousand drawers.

But in my mother’s room

there is a much smaller girl 

who can’t help piddling on the rug 

like a bad dog. Like a bad little bitch puppy. 

And she will always be there, too, 

no matter, no matter how much I wish

she would be gone

back to the cupboard with a thousand drawers.