I am five,
structured on a hill,
in self-loathing suburbia,
sits a house with a red door.
The scent of wet dog,
And granite countertops.

I bore you with questions,
a Blue’s Clues thinking chair,
I do possess.
Emergency Medics,
Penetrate the stillness of air.
Mother in distress.

The faint sound of footsteps,
Shuffling ensues.
Hard soles.
Mother always says,
Not to wear hard soles,
in a home of good peace.

He is here today,
Asleep.
I am here,
Alive and awake.
Tomorrow he will be gone,
And here I sit,
observing cartoons,
thinking.