Late afternoon hours run through the gaps between the vinyl pendulums.
Each of my five right fingers is a car that plows through the tan polyester forest.
My eyes are level with the treetops, my thoughts stay within sight.
The ambient shush of the central air loses its breath.
From upstairs I hear Mom chopping vegetables to the beat of Shania Twain.
Dad lets in the sweetly cooked air through the door upstairs.
My bare stomping feet are drawn to the source.
It must be nearly five and time for the KARE 11 news.
The reassuring twin tower 1’s – blue, white and red –
The theme song draws Mom in from the kitchen.
Plopped beside him; dangling heals take turns kicking the couch.
I tuck my hands beneath my thighs, feeling my tendons moving with each kick.
The vents open, flooding the home in an aura of mute space.
Murder, murder, murder and fires eating up that poor man’s home.