These small little things,
These drifting bottles,
Hidden under sand, under castles, under twisting boughs.
The key to you.
Also the lock.
The sofa in your attic room
is a long slab of dough;
I sink into it every time
I melt into the fibers
and hide there
until the storm
has passed over our heads –
the rage of alcohol
infects the whole street,
though the radiation-green trail
is a red-handed print from my house.
You tell me I can’t stay here
They’ll find me anyway,
better to turn myself in.
Part of me thinks you’re right.
Maybe my years of hiding
I’m supposed to be an adult soon, anyway.
Do adults really run
from their family?
You say you don’t know;
you’ve never had one.
I look at you, confused.
An empty room
Naturalist and multi-award winning author
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