Sleepover
The windows open to June-like breezes,
trampolines, piccolos, French-braided hair.
Another bag of kettle corn burns
in the microwave. I don’t care –
I feel like turning the lights off,
telling ghost stories.
Her stoned brother asks for munchies;
I burrow further beneath fleece blankets
and wish I could be young forever.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
