Walls riddled with lights revolve
around your little frame of
close-fitting limbs, so still
and small, interrupting the insane
whine of video games and sick
sugary mouths of running children.

The aroma of pizza and plastic
toys seeps through the dimness and
intoxicates me.

I see the rose-colored satin
unwrinkled on your lap,
the awkward position you
carved for yourself so wisely in
six years,
your brazen wheelchair which
glitters in the madness.

And your quiet comforts me.
You struggle with wandering
eyes to find mine.
I want to cradle your
head, stuck to one shoulder,
and swallow your pureness
and carry you.