Pillow grasped
in tight little fists
around her head

scraped knuckles
reminders of
yesterday’s
floor scrubbing

abandonment
her own fault-or
so she was told

gritting her teeth
she huddles against
bunk’s iron headboard

the bell again

not remembering
when it last rang for her

dreaded Sunday noons

names are called
“pick me, pick me”

she had smiled
her best smile
worn her
un-dingiest socks
for the pre-luncheon parade

covered ears
attempt to block
not unfamiliar
delighted squealing

anger’s boiling kettle
sends scalding torrents
down her cheeks

tonight brings
another
empty bed
that isn’t hers

CkC