Our Father


I pad about the house from room to room, a sullen ghost
doing its damnedest to bed down for the night.

Noise follows me like dust. The kids have multiplied.
In the kitchen I skulk through walls, softly become obsolete.

A radio is turned-up too loud. In my head I tune it out.
The dog catches my eye, seems to empathise.

A sudden shriek from the living room —
on TV someone is howling life at such a pitch

it seems grown men no longer compromise
or find the place to hide inside their skin.

“our Father” by Michael Brown was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (August 2017) judged by Oz Hardwick

Michael writes from Middlesbrough.