Brother and I were hunting fairies and
Catching colds in the winter air
From staying out too late trying to snatch
Shooting stars with our tongues and
Making wishes on falling flakes of snow.
Dreaming of days when Mom’s voice,
Breathing miasma into our fairyland of snow,
Wouldn’t beckon us inside to sit at the table and
Listen to Dad and Mom discuss the details
Of some tenant down the street who ate
A bullet, and how no one saw it coming.
But Dad said that all eggs crack eventually.
All the while they sat pondering the
Screwdriver across the hall
Who made his kids work on saturdays,
And maybe we should have them over for dinner.