The Fifth Year

a poem for June

July 19th // Part V

In the late afternoons, I listen 
as floorboards creak to the sounds
of make-believe, and to you laughing
all by yourself. I hear tea cups clinking and 
malaprop singing and once-empty pages
being scratched full. It’s the magic you’ve found
inside s p a c e to just be, and I try to make it easy
to find. But there’s something to be said
of the eagerness in your wave and the way
you scurry off with your friends.
It's that little taste of freedom, that thrill
of not taking my hand, while still bringing home
the leftovers from any experience lived without me.
You drop your bags and I sit,
like a dog beneath a table,
happy to drink up 
whatever details you'll drop, hungry
for whatever you’re still willing to share.