Foster Child
Barbara Wagner

This is not my home
These walls that surround me
But never protect me
These windows without shades
Where I watch the world rush past
Pausing only to peer at my nakedness
These doors that open and slam shut
Like a screen door in a storm

This is not my family
These hands that count the money I bring
But never touch me
These mouths that talk at me
Through me
About me
But never to me
These eyes that follow my every move
Waiting for me to use the wrong towel
Or outgrow my clothes
Or eat too much
Waiting for me to become
More trouble than I’m worth

These are not my feelings
This crying without tears
Screaming without sound
This repeated rising of flood waters
That swallow the soil beneath me
Until my roots hang bare and dry in the sun

This is not my life
Watching the second hand tick away the time
Of my incarceration
For the crime of childhood
Clinging to a half-remembered past
Yearning to have something to leave behind
That would sting in the breaking away

This is not real
You standing before me
Smiling
Keys in hand
Arms outstretched
What’s your game?

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