I may have written a poem or an oddly worded story. I don’t know which it is.
A Queenryche fantasy of Chinese food
consumed on an old mattress.
The sheets a part of a charity case; the pattern
could be seen on Little House on the Prairie
You’ll draw while I read
on a couch propped up by The Tommyknockers.
The only book of appropriate thickness.
On the mattress we sleep
our legs intertwined like the dusty
cables of the television.
The baby sleeps in shoes so her toes are not cold.
In footed pajamas and a pair of off brand tennis shoes
she roams the front room.
The mice gnaw at the wood inside the walls,
a scrapping sound that projects
a much larger animal.
The roaches that travel between houses,
crawl over the dinner dishes, dragging
filth behind them.
The couple on the mattress pays no mind.