The Unfortunate Young Daughter
At the end of the petunia-lined path,
Emanating out of the open glass door,
All the neighbors listened to
The hollow laughter of strangers,
But chose to think of nothing more.
Drowned out by the clinking of glasses,
Stifled by the polished hardwood floor,
No one heard the silent sobs
Of the young daughter secretly terrified of
Everything waiting for her in the real world.
Just as all the other neighborhood children,
She did everything that she was told;
Never notably late nor notably early,
Never too quiet, but,
Then again, never bold.
Down to the last gritty detail,
She had perfected her act.
Never one combed hair out of place,
Not one neighbor ever suspecting
Anything unusual or out of whack.
But as February turned to March and
The other children, eager to take flight,
Excitedly discussed ivy-covered classrooms
And compared newly purchased laptops,
Her false act was crumbling from its original height.
Too selfishly consumed with visions
Of horizons at the crossroads,
It was unfortunate that everyone
Ignored the young daughter who, herself, saw nothing
Beyond the dead end of the petunia-lined path.
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