I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.
I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.
I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.
