Walking home from school
where punishment is play
writing the same sentence 100 times is great
cuz then we don't have to go outside
with the others who laugh at our lack of logos
then scar us with names.
Slipping up the icy grade
past Pennystreet Lane
over the Mohawk bridge
snow covered in decay
where the ghost lady gently whispers,
"it's gonna be alright one day".
Laying in wait
the beast constantly betrayed
whose hot fist warms our pillows.
Cold is the wind in the willows.
Mr. Toad haunts all our small darkened days.
Until something spills
and we wake to thrill and see our mother
at last risen from her grave
taking my brother and me
away from this chambered place
thrown frozen into a trunk of hope.
We beamed like cherubic Grigori.
Protection is heaven.
She loves us
she really does
But less than a mile goes by
before she pulls into a parking lot
and begins to cry.
I spy with my little eye
2 tiny broken twigs
in the early morning mist.
And as she turns back around
we know we'll be the ones
to pay for this.
So we leave something behind
on the corner of Black River Blvd
and North 46.