Porridge

 

We sit on the porch and swing,

legs pumping, small breezes

coming from beneath our feet.

We just finished reading

the story of the three bears,

my own little bears mesmerized

at the porridge, the beds,

the cottage that seems just like ours

if our lives were a fairytale.

When the pages close, they run

through the grass, fast as trees

zipping by in mountain-bound

cars. They don’t grow tired,

even in the heat of the rays

of summer falling behind

the tops of leaves. The baby

sucks the bottle as fire-

flies turn into stars, making

me wonder if I was just

a masked stranger dreaming

of what I wish could stay real.