The View From Below Poem by Sean Joyce

I lie on the floor where his right hand
has left me, the wreckage of his dinner
around me. The girls are out and the
boys are safe, the waiting now is over

The long walls are papered blue, the
short ones are papered pink. A narrow
border runs around the walls the windows
and the door. At each corner it coils
around and back in stupid pointless circles.

He is wrecking the kitchen but above that
noise I can hear the radio talking back.
All over the country people can hear that sound.
In the name of the living Christ can no one
out there hear me scream
in pork and cold potatoes?