In this house
even the bathroom’s
a place of no peace.
I huddle there Sundays
enthroned with whatever
they’ve left of the paper.
Off the door, the great blitz:
rubber balls, little fists,
soles of bare feet.
Unamused, still perusing,
I sit there refusing
to vacate my sanctum.
Blitz your bare feet!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem