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Gone Tomorrow

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Structured on a hill,
in self-loathing suburbia,
There sits a house with a red door.
Inside the casa blanca,
the smell of wet dog,
and granite countertops.
I am five.

Questions,
I attest.
A Blue’s Clues thinking chair,
I 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.

My brother is here today,
In rest.
I am here today,
I attest.
Tomorrow he will be gone.
And here I sit,
Watching Blue’s Clues.

 






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