Shawn, look at that thing hanging out of baby brother’s red slobbering lips; a cricket.
There’s the neighbor’s chickens running through Great Grandpa’s orchard again.
Shawn, let’s avoid concrete Mary’s tired broken arms and squish through the fence into the cemetery field to let the zombies scare the hell out of us.
There’s our mom, so pretty, winding her wet, black hair in prickly wire rollers spearing each one with a pink plastic pin.
Shawn, we have to wait for the police cars to roll out of our rural rock drive so we can break loose from mom and look under every stone and bush for the bank robber’s stolen cash, (moolah/stash)–if we find it we’ll be rich, rich, stinking rich!
There’s Grandma and Grandpa down in Texas away from siren locust screams.
Shawn, it’s hard to ride the big wheel on grass and rock-ways, so will you push if I pedal?
There’s no dog or cat barking or meowing.
Shawn, our knees are scraped and dad’s drinking cold beer outside on the screened-in porch.
There’s a TV on and Archie and Edith Bunker are sitting at the piano singing, “Those Were The Days!!”