Get up from there.

Why don’t we just get our backpacks on and we’ll head to school.

We could sit in corners and laugh at everyone else that isn’t us because

Look at what they’re missing. Just get up, you, ya scoundrel.

Your backyard is warmer is than inside, somehow.

But your grass is splotchy . The bench in your garden has broken

in half and it’s going to take more than haphazard Elmer’s to get us on our feet.

Great. Fifty feet and we’re back on our spines under

a fort of couches and linens. Let’s pretend that rules

don’t apply and that holes in the fabric are huge stars

and we can hide from our problems.

Just get up, you, ya scoundrel.

Sure, we could drive around for hours and waste your week’s gas in one night.

We tend to nothing a lot, don’t we? Filling, dead air with its hot counterpart.

We would try something different today as we sat in your car.

We could talk about your subtle comments and my snide remarks.

Look at us. Look at what everyone else is missing.

Just get up, you, ya scoundrel.

At one point, one of us will feel like actually doing something,

But the other will have been iron on to the leather seats

of your Sedan by rays of nonchalance.

“Why can’t life be like as easy as fucking Marmaduke?

Why can’t I have as few worries as him?

Why don’t people chase me when I runaway from me?”

And you’d turn your DGAF head towards me and say

“Why don’t we play the Quiet game. Ready. Go.”