Punching Bag

Every night, father comes home drunk and staggers like a tyre rolled by a three year old rascal, he demands for food but leaves no kobo,
mother would serve him with the little she can make,
And he would yell like a train horn,
While hot dark steam rushes out of his mouth
With his steel arms,
He would jam mother’s shoulders
And punch her on the face like an Anthony Joshua—
That’s how I watch Tyson’s fury every night,
While father knocks mother down like a Punching bag.
And early in the morning
He would shout around the house,
Kicking down stuffs and furniture,
Like he had lost a battle in his nightmares,
He would yell at mother like a trumpet and the whole apartment would tremble,
And again and again he would punch mother’s face and now she looks like a squashed tomato

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