We played a game—the floor was lava—
we hopped from couch to chair,
crab walked across the window seat,
then swung from the chandelier
onto the library table. If you knocked
anything over—a book, a goblet,
a bowl of flowers—you would burst
into flame. When that happened
the little hairs of me shot straight up.
I squealed.
“Pop Goes the Weasel” tinkled
in my ears. Outside small wrens
peeped in the bushes. Mouthwatering
smells drifted from the kitchen—
my mother was heating up a can
of Campbell’s soup for lunch—
a lava of black beans. Saltines
floated like islands. Granddaddy
was still alive. We didn’t have any pets.
Not even a goldfish.