Home, skipped with every symptom
known to fifth-grade-kind,
sick of every re-run
and trapped outside of storybooks,
what adventure could be better than emptying
the overflowing closet?
Even the sickest faker
would clean if they envisioned
a clubhouse in a 3 by 3 foot space
with a shoe shelf for a loft!
What’s better exercise
than shimmying up the door frame?
I slurped pasta in the dark with the door shut
and drew imagined polar bears out of
too thin air.
The next day, I rushed the imaginary pets
to my real friend, even let her walk one home from school.
She let me regale her while squeezed into my closet,
like I was a glitter pen and she a neon notebook,
and like characters were what kept adventures
from just being pretend.