Debbie. Where is Debbie? Our allocated girl,
solidly quiet, she never spoke in class,
could not find work. I sent her, in the whirl
of wind, on her new scooter, to buy cakes.
She did not fall. Then I was riding high,
I caught her in my wake. She counted cash,
she spoke at coffee. Then she got her job.
So when I had my daughter, she came by
with thick cream mittens she had made from scratch.
We bathed my baby, laugh and splash and rub,
we slid apart to lives. And I am glad
she missed the fallen years, my child turned sad.
Now the wave lifts. What is she? Fifty-three?
I hope she has no time to think of me.
Alison Brackenbury reads Work Experience