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.
