In front of a grubby caravan
a stringy youthful girl performs
perfect cartwheels.

I think how her hands
might be abraded
on the rough shingles

but clearly she doesn’t
give a fig. Her father
a brutal hulking man

ensconced in his deck chair
by the caravan door
is barely alive.

If I had a daughter
like you
I’d be whooping

and clapping
at your impeccable turns
until you curtsied

and gave your doting
a great sloppy kiss.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist