The Quiet Ones

The Quiet Ones

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The Quiet Ones

Yes, there was a flock of us, it’s true,
squished together in that smelly shoe.
The old woman always ate the bread,
while we, her children, got the broth instead,
and even though we never said a peep,
she caned us all before we went to sleep.
Now that we are grown and she has passed,
we tell ourselves those days are in the past.

We meet just once a year, at the cemetery,
up on the hill outside of Canterbury.
Sitting far apart, we picnic there,
enjoy the view, inhale the open air,
and just for fun, throw rocks at her headstone.
Then, in single file, we start for home.