Window Thoughts
Mom stopped smiling
last week. I don’t ask why,
the tea kettle blows steam. Music
from the top of a glass bottle of Coca Cola. Sometimes,
I gotta lick my chapped lips
before playing the tune. My tongue
scrapes the dry spot
I bite off with teeth, it bleeds. Once,
she asks how school’s going. I answer,
good. Lying between curtains
from a mail-order catalogue of laughter
because,
face it– hand-me-downs don’t fly. Well,
her lips don’t curl upwards with smoke
slinking from a cigarette. Hiding
in my hair. I pull it, twist thin paper
between my thumb and index finger– around
and back. On the other side of the glass, two
kids pass
by, the one on the bike
rings a bell. The other,
laughs.
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