I’d capriole from bed,

stealth across the landing: yawning,

watch the dull light under

my parents door,

and wait for the padding

of Mom’s feet and the

open palm fed to me

through the dark.


Thirteen one-foot steps,

holding on; down towards nothing.

I’d sprawl along the lounge

and feel the single carpet strokes,

the sudden cold: Goosebumps.


I’d perk up at wisps of buttered

croissants and jam,

sit up and scoff them,

and wave good-bye at the door,

smudged in breakfast.


© National Poetry Labs


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