Two little boys slept in my small brass bed,
as my dolls collected dust in a cradle.
Their glass eyes, so eerie,
reflect the flickering candle.
As I tried to make sense of fractions,
graphite roses filled my margins.
Mother idly tried to peel
the stickers from my bedroom window.
Her eyes catch fire when she’s angry.
The house on the corner
with the tall wooden fence
no longer has an '89 Plymouth Voyager
in the driveway.
Through the window,
a Christmas tree suffocates beneath tinsel
and a broken music box
no longer tinkled Brahms.
The photo was found on Flickr and taken by Bob Fornal.