Poor Ducky (Speakeasy #91)

The footsteps paused briefly at her doorway,

And scuffed upon the mat.

Then came the knock that she was expecting,

That familiar rat-a-tat-tat.

She flustered, gathered up her things,

Put on her waterproof coat,

Reached for her keys, gripped them tightly.

A lump formed in her throat.

Fear began to jangle her nerves

When she heard him knock once more.

He wouldn’t leave. This she knew.

So she opened her front door.

“Nice weather for ducks!”  His smile was broad,

Rain splashing off of his hood.

“Come on, we’ll take a walk by the river,

Then stop somewhere for food.”

“Don’t think I can,” she shook her head.

“Too wet, too cold, too far.”

How long had it been since she’d left the house?

Or went for a spin in a car?

“Come on,” he said, cajolingly,

“We’ve been through this already.

You’re coming out, mum. That’s that.”

Taking her hand, he held it steady.

“You’ve been stuck inside for far too long.”

He spoke as though he were the parent.

She took a deep breath, crossed the threshold,

And stepped out onto the pavement.

The door slammed behind her, made her jump,

But her son held her hand fast.

As raindrops ran off her waterproof back.

She felt something of freedom at last.