There used to be a big oak tree in the front yard and a pine in the back

Where the ground is as slanted 

As our hamstring-stretch walls,

Where no poster could hang without struggle.

Oh, but what about the carpets? 

Those dark navy smokey steps we still resent. 

And in that room gymnasts lept 

From bed to bed but now,

We sleep apart.

The musty smell in the basement reminds me

Of playing Cooking Mama on Easter and how

I embodied satisfaction after abstaining from video games for Lent.
The floors are barely more than dirt
But they are painted the same minty green 

As the walls, which must count for something. 

 

And on this dirt floor,

Like the farm children our ancestors were, we play.

But we have a Wii and every Fur Real Friend,

They comfort our inside woes when it rains

And we cannot even toy with climbing the front-tree 

Without low branches to reach.

Now, everything down-downstairs is yellowed

And the floors are made of laundry

And your room and mine share
Opposite banks upon the same body
Of water, just as we shared the same mother’s womb,
Only five years apart.

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