the snow is fresh
no trace of another soul has walked these grounds
in my snuggie i run the hall
slide down the stairs
the smell of cinnamon rolls overcomes me
my mother has baked them just now
i have no chores nor responsibility
i have slept as much as i desired
i may well watch tv today
or step outside to make balls of snow
wait
i am three
therefore, i am blind with rage
No comments:
Post a Comment