Cleaning Out My Closet

I had a dream about you many years ago,

or maybe it was only someone

who bore you a strong resemblance,

I can no longer remember.

The door was locked,

but you climbed inside anyway

by pushing open the transom.

I failed to engage

the tiny piece of metal that held

the clasp shut, and there you were again,

laughing as you squeezed your body

through the tiny opening

like a supernatural movie villain.

It was more irritating than terrifying,

but I knew that to let you in

would be the same awful mistake

that it had always been.

You'd sit on my floor,

break my toys carefully

and deliberately, one by one

while telling me that you were only

going to take one sip

of my glass of soda, so could

I please let you drink just a tiny bit?

I'd always say sure,

because I hated to see you thirsty.

You'd gulp down the entire glass

every time,

and leave me the backwash,

then apologize for your thirst.

That's your rendition

of our story, the one that never changes.

In the revised version,

I tell you to get your own soda,

and you disappear,

leaving me alone with the dolls

and all of the other unbroken toys

that I never asked for in the first place,

and then I fall asleep,

leaving my door unlocked.