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.


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