Best Friends
Take down the Christmas tree,
it’s already March. No, wait, I’d rather
bask in its insipid, dead, tinsel glory.
See, the monorail runs twice daily
on the plastic track that circles
the evergreen’s base and Epcot globe,
the one you broke apart
to combat me with
when I chased you with a knife,
around the spacious living room.
Remember back in October
when we danced to Thriller
on this very same carpet?
Now I play Superman
on the island in the kitchen
while you heat up hamburgers
for out late night snack.
Your mother must think we’re insane.
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