You Told Me Not To Play On the Doghouse

You told me not to play on the doghouse. You told me multiple times that day That I should not play on the dog house. Later that night, sometime after dinner, I built a fortress made of thick wooden blocks. At some point, when we were getting coats ready to leave, You were talking with my parents in the kitchen Over on last cup of dandelion tea. The older kids were outside smoking cigarettes. I asked for permission and went out Under an older brother's supervision. The steps from the side door were rough red-stoned brick. I hopped down them, onto the stone paved sidewalk And went out to that doghouse. I sat at the edge of the sidewalk Dangling my feet into the hole the dog had dug Through concrete and dirt, And I took a hard look at that doghouse. I don't think anyone even noticed as I settled myself to sit On the plywood roof of that dog house. I fell off the doghouse and into that hole. My right elbow smashed into the concrete at the hole's edge, Separating the bones at the spot. I don't recall if I went inside Or if you came to me first. Ice was put on my arm and I was rushed to the hospital. I wore a caste through the beginning of Summer. My kindergarten class and the first graders All signed the relic. The whole tee-ball team signed it, And that last game before we moved They all signed the game ball and gave it to me. I never apologized to you For disobeying that caring command. What child would? It seems now that I've lost the chance, And for that I'm truly sorry.