A knock on the door,
why doesn't he use the door bell?
He comes in scruffy- black and
brown and white hair. He's three feet tall and
waddling, wearing a stupid blue bow tie.
No pants.
"We try to keep a respectable house," says Mom.
She finds him a pair of teal corduroys, no longer
fitting any of us.
They don't even zip up, he is too fat.
He tries to shake my hand,
his hand is fingerless and soft.
I fold it in mine, it is nothing, a rag, an empty sock.
My sister takes his hand from me and
leads him to the table.
He sits in her lap and she rolls up the legs of his pants.
"One day," she tells me, hand feeding him peas,
"When boys become men and no longer care
about looks, you'll get a boyfriend too."
He moves in with us, never talks, just
stares with those tiny
piercing eyes. "I love you," she says, kissing
his forehead, at least I think that's what it is.
Her lips are as big as his head. He pecks her
with his beak.
I find a mess on my bed- dirty blue converse shoes, a torn Animal Encyclopedia,
Mom's red high heels, her favorite black scarf, my old Etch N Sketch.
A big roundish thing sits in the pile.
I poke it- smooth like a giant sea shell.
"We're having a baby," my sister says.
I barely hear my sister's
screams over the frying sizzle of
my scrambled eggs ad French toast.