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Sometimes MAG
She's my daughter sometimes when
she combs herstraight, dark hair.
Or when she curls up on the side
of the overstuffedcouch with a fat
book and stays there for hours.
Or when she sips her teadelicately.
It reminds me of when I bought her
her first tea set. Ithought she
would grow up to be a perfect lady.
But now she has a ringsticking
through her red tongue
and wouldn't be caught dead
in adress.
She doesn't look at me
but past me, through me.
Sometimesshe's my daughter,
but usually I don't know who
she is.
© Anonymous
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