Let’s build a fort, you say.
I look up from my book and say,
The back of the couch is too weak.
You look at the couch then stand up.
You give the stretched upholstery a press,
Feel the lumber under the big pillows.
You run your fingers into the creases,
Unearth a pencil and match box car.
You take your time, run your fingers on its spine.
You examine like a performance while I try to read.
Then you stand behind of me, cross your arms.
You stand behind of me and I don’t look up.
You say, ahem. Then speak:
You have too much plans if you think you know
how the sofa fits in.
How do you know how a thing will be
Before building the fort?
I shade my face between my bangs and the book.
You squat beside me and I don’t look at you.
If the couch is too weak, you continue,
Then you haven’t arrived at the right fort yet.
You’re not reading, you say.
Your eyes are still.
I put my book down and
Accidentally hit your toe, hard.
You say Yow! and,
What was that for?
It was a mistake. Besides,
If you hadn’t been bugging me!
So you quit. You build a fort without me.