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,

traded

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

chanting

a whispered song, half forgotten,

muffled

by the sound of shouting;

A battle seen through the gaps of

her fingers,

while sirens

drown

the sound of screams.

Strangers

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

confused.

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

hanging

on the fridge

for when mommy

comes home.

And on the porch

a spilled cup of crimson

seeps

slowly

into Memory.

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