Irma

Irma waits by the window

Vaguely looking down at her socks

And humming, possibly her

Father will come home with a box

Of chocolates, possibly

Not father's memory

Was never what it once was

Shouldn't really drive anymore

Either as if in answer

With a sound like blowing up your

Ears, father's jeep crashes

Through Irma's wall she says

Bad words as several hundred

Boxes of her favorite kind

Of chocolate fill her bedroom

But she doesn't actually mind