There is a small bespectacled man
stalking us. I suspect he’s one
of Father’s cronies. But
I’m not intimidated,
I scoff at danger.
Father is cheap enough
to dog our steps,
having already bulldozed
our lives. I have seen Mother
swallow hard, when the postman
knocks. But we shall not be
pitiful. We have the court order.
It is pinned behind the writing desk,
to ward off evil malicious men.
I think I’m becoming sour
about the male species.
Let it happen.