At Grandma’s house
there’s a basement with a beaten sofa.
You can escape there by descending
an elbow of warped wooden stairs that
corner their way around the back of
the house from the side-deck. No-one
will see us leave. Take an open bottle
of anything brown from the cabinet.
We’ll refill it later with some cold tea,
maybe stale root beer and water. I’ve
got this little bag of grass, enough to
roll a slim one. We’ll be totally invisible
down there, getting high, beyond the wash
of their blunted adult voices. Don’t you
think they sound like they’re underwater,
like they’re the ones already underground?
first published in The Homestead Review, 2016