The horse rocks like it believes it’s on water
in the heart of the gold-tinted living room;
pink and white plastic imprinting itself onto
the explosions of brown and red and beige
patterns made of itchy scratchy wool
that mother says I should not roll on
or eat from.
The brown and red and beige smells of restless feet
rustling around the room
in anxious anticipation
of its impending departure
from the comforts of the itchy scratchy sound of static
from the chunky black box in front of me.
I think of feet on asphalt,
the blistering hot tarmac
where the planes rest
before they growl and
rip through the sky,
ready to take me far
from the comforts of
home sweet home.