The child is screaming on her father's lap.
The lights are off, the rocking chair's relentless
urge impels her back and forth. She's screamed
the whole way home, the cab a mess of wrath,
the driver silent, everyone on edge,
the mother, in front, trying not to cry.
We have a little girl. She's one of "those
children," the "special" ones. "A little retarded girl."
"You know They find it hard to deal with change."
she's quiet. Overtired, overfed, overstimulated
it's taken much too long to get her down.
Tomorrow she'll be up at six for school.
We'll put her on the bus and breathe a sigh.