Sunday

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

Don’t sit here and read,
go out and play with the other kids in the street,
his mother said while fastening her dressing gown.
Come here, a gruff voice from the bedroom called,
he hesitated
knew the room would smell of sweaty bodies and stale beer,
the man gave him a few coins,
enough to see a movie and buy an ice cream.
The street was empty
but wafted of Sunday dinner.