How were we to know
there is no such thing as magic?
Kids believe the hype,
Paris is hyped.
So every Saturday,
when the pocketmoney hit our palms
it went straight to a jar.
We saved for you.
Our parents. Our divorcing parents.
The date loomed eerily overhead.
Like a vulture awaits
its inevitable swoop.
The dinner money joined it,
as did the busfares
when it didn't rain.
Sometimes, when it rained.
It was raining in our young hearts.
Yes, we were trying to save our family.
But back then we didn't know
you can't play God.
We'd seen the flights
in the Sunday paper.
Only our financial clout wasn't quite enough.
We were left in a broken home
with a jar full of fifty-pence pieces.
It was a monumental failure.
We were sentenced to two Christmases.
Only they have the feel of quarters
compared to the others.
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