Novembertime

In the secret room
He meant to draw
The clock as moving
In another secret room.

He had drawn grass outside
Like a green haircut.
He’d put up flowers
In a blue bowl.

Twice he came downstairs,
To get a glass of water
And at dinner. They had spaghetti
Which were like tiny legs.

Early next morning, his father shaving
As into a bowl of spoiled milk
His brother peeing outside
Onto a ground covered in slush.

The postman coming
Like a hobbled white cat,
Snow on a branch
Breaking apart politely.

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