Shove. Get in there!

Snick—the key turns.

Your big brother Mickey’s footsteps clack

on the wood floor,

thud on the rug.

It’s dark in here.

Old rubber galoshes stink of feet,

the coats of wet wool.

They hang around,

their hems on your neck and shoulders.

You hope no mice come in here

to scrabble and squeak

like they do in the walls by your bed.