Indiana Problem

Wrapped in an afghan and playing

Mousetrap, I worried that I wasn’t

giving enough attention to the stupider

toys: Lite Brite with most of the pieces

missing; life-size Barbie head smeared

with red and blue, forever bruised

and smiling; shoebox of rubber animals

I got as prizes at the church cake

walk. Boredom was always a dim

garden in the background, a place

where twilight was described by adults,

ears stretching toward the opening

notes of The Facts of Life, eyes stretching

toward the windows and the sketchy

trees, dark Hoosier sadness, the houses

so close we could hear their forks

and knives if we left the door open. I

didn’t plan this second kingdom:

not exactly in the mind or in the heart

but in the waiting between them,

a waiting so long it made another body

in case this one got too lonely.