Last night, I was at the police station. Long story.
And I saw you, shaky, cracked out. Ringed shiny red brown, waking contusions, bruises of eyes wide opened. You called, the one they give you.
And, twenty minutes later, your father came in gruff and angry and telling the officers to get the hell off of her. Get away from her. She’s my daughter. What have you done, sweetie?
It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re with me, now. And other flimflam at which you rolled your eyes.
Give ’em lip, kid. I’m rooting for you.