There are no kids, only

Holly berries fill a Styrofoam cup,

picked illicitly

from the top of the grey,

peeling propane tank in the yard,


for wild onions pulled from the Earth

where Grendel was buried,

underneath the old pine tree

which heard the cowboys And Indians

huddled ‘round a campfire


a whispered song, half forgotten,


by the sound of shouting;

A battle seen through the gaps of

her fingers,

while sirens


the sound of screams.


who love the children

whose parents couldn’t even

love themselves

comfort them with penny-pancakes.

But even Bugs Bunny knows what

“Their mother was on-“

“Shh, not in front of the kids!”

who look around


There are no kids, only

overcooked bacon, sandwiches

with crusts.

The piggies don’t have blankets.

How are they supposed

To go to the market?

They ask

a silver knight

with rainbow shoes

all colored in the lines


on the fridge

for when mommy

comes home.

And on the porch

a spilled cup of crimson



into Memory.

More by this Author


No comments yet.

    Sign in or sign up and post using a HubPages Network account.

    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No HTML is allowed in comments, but URLs will be hyperlinked. Comments are not for promoting your articles or other sites.

    Click to Rate This Article