Late. For Keran Poem by Roy Storey

Its eight oclock,
i tap the dile.
It has been fast
for a while.
Then again,
thoughts of fear.
She could be playing
very near.
Or run down by a car.
Followed, by the man
with a scar.
She all ways
late it true.
Ill keep her in
thats what ill do.
Ten past eight,
i am sorry dad.
I could not get home
the roads are bad.
Would you like
a cup of tea.
Theres one for you
and one for me.
I am sorry dad,
i am late again.
Every night
its just the same.