I doubt it

It’s as if you

have died when I head

into your room, only

its ageing bears

tucked in at night,

everything just

as you left it, but quiet—

to switch off the lone

night light—though you

are just down

the street at our neighbor

boy’s sleepover, turning

nine tonight, where, surely,

you barely sleep.

I bet you’re up drinking

apple juice the way we once

downed soda or pop

or root beer, RC

or Atari by the liter, playing war

& bullshit—

what we code-named I doubt it—

though we boys were full

of confidence. Sleeping bags

a war zone where nobody died

or got sent home—

where we’d play-fight

& camp out & need no light

to keep us company

till dawn. This is how

we learnt about tomorrow—

when I will wander

over & tug you back

where you also belong—

by the hand, somewhat

awake, sleeping

bag under your arm

empty as a chrysalis.