Under the Table

In early childhood,
as muted as a ghost,
I burrowed under the tables
to doodle and make up ditties, dodging
pain, harsh words, shattering
crystal, a family's fading with Daddy's
absence when he moved to his mother's,
and Mama, smoothing the wrinkles
on her skirt, said: "She needs him more,"
but one day, Daddy
knocked on the door and asked
for his radio, while I fidgeted
under the table in the hallway.
Mama, shoving him
a cardboard box, squeaked:
"Won't you see your daughter?"
The place grew still
until Daddy said:
"Ain't important."
Ever since that day,
I've been trying to improvise
my importance.



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Prompt:
Most of us, as children, had a secret hiding place or favorite spot to get away from our families and our ordinary lives. It might have been a spot in the woods, a fort in the yard or basement, a roof of the house, under the bed - or maybe it was just in your room reading a book as a means of escape. Write a poem about your place, and, if possible, a paticular event/incident you recall that made you seek it out.