Awake and the sun smelled like bed.
It looked red. There were lint specks,
planets orbiting a thread
of choice: to dress,
or not to. But I want to stay there
in my head in bed and undress
further to cuddle the dear
colors of heroes, escape
the shouting Dad’s worn to outwear.
Some crumbling fabric: his toupee,
cookie crumbs bouncing on the sheets,
wind splitting shards of glass. Okay:
So, I suck them up and curl to speak
of the beer cans on the lawn,
the piles of nickels, all mine to keep!
I might’ve found the pawn
from the set Dad threw when drunk
through my window into a cracking dawn.
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