I know without any doubt,
that my childhood self would love
the person we’ve become–
of course he would,
my house is a
monument to his memory,
right down to the Star Wars bed-sheets.
Unfortunately the one of us
that’s actually alive
needs somewhat more than
a boxed copy of Battletoads to make him happy.
Sometimes being surrounded by
these cluttered walls feels like living
in the tomb of a postmodern child-king:
A Tut for the new millennium,
surrounded by hoarded treasures,
and enough entertainment to weather
the eternal afterlife of adulthood.
