Every morning, half-nine dotted, was when she saw them
People who wanted everything to do with her
Sitting by the window overlooking the rose garden a little below
Adamant on driving her mad, livid and so utterly confused it really does border on mental abuse
The tiny girl, her father and a mother with an upside down frown
There’s the wrong way round then there is her entirely
They whispered for her own mother not to hear, she never could anyway
When she dressed in her pretty yellow the tiny girl would always ask for her hand
She saw it, always forever
The four of them saw it, but whenever her own father would hose the roses and stare on up he got to cry all over again
His thirteen-year-old daughter holding onto nothing and everything, really