Brother and I were hunting fairies and

Catching colds in the winter air

From staying out too late trying to snatch

 

Shooting stars with our tongues and

Making wishes on falling flakes of snow.

Dreaming of days when Mom’s voice,

 

Breathing miasma into our fairyland of snow,

Wouldn’t beckon us inside to sit at the table and

Listen to Dad and Mom discuss the details

 

Of some tenant down the street who ate

A bullet, and how no one saw it coming.

But Dad said that all eggs crack eventually.

 

All the while they sat pondering the

Screwdriver across the hall

Who made his kids work on saturdays,

 

And maybe we should have them over for dinner.