Resentment
puckers the sand-specked lips
of the beach.
It’s tucked crossly into the top of that towel
the teenager doesn’t want to wear
in the café while eating.
Her new bikini.
It scores a sullen tally
across the face of the middle-aged dad
Withholding an ice-cream
high in the sky.
His puzzled son squints upwards and tries not to cry.
I clutch your hand tightly
in wonder
and wonder
What it must be like
to like one’s parents.
