Help Was Not Our Neighbor

We sat on the tattered couch, primped and pressed.
My sisters and I remained quiet and neatly dressed.

Waiting for some stranger to come take us away.
This home is now a crime scene, we heard the Sheriff say.

Last night we huddled together, much too scared to cry
Not one came to rescue us or even dared to try.

His yells, the poundings, her shrilling cries of fright,
Fueled from a whiskey bottle late one Friday night.

Neighbors knew the story and it was hard to overlook.
She was a housemaid, boxing bag, waitress and a cook.

He planned her day's routine, no consent to leave the house.
Beaten into submission, now a nervous and fearful spouse.

Three children born and placed aside from jealousy and rage.
She did her best to care for us but he demanded center stage.

His old shotgun hung on the wall, quite often used for threats.
Usually he blackened her eyes while having no regrets.

Last night was surely different though, she stood up to resist.
Her best she did, to fight him off, but alcohol fueled his fists.

He crushed her cheek with one blow and another to her head
He staggered into the bathroom shower, leaving her for dead.

Three children left as witnesses, they would surely turn him in.
He would have to use his shotgun to commit unspeakable sin.

Thinking, he must do it now, as the children slept in bed.
He turned the hot water off and toweled his aching head.

Today it seems every one is hanging their heads in shame.
The sheriff said, unfortunately we all share in the blame.

The house filled with police and a tall man in a white coat.
A social worker questioned us as she quietly cleared her throat.

My sister asked the woman, you see that hole in the door?
Mommy killed daddy last night, he's dead on the bathroom floor.

I asked the local sheriff, when will mommy be home to rest.
I don't know for sure young man, but this time we'll do our best.