It is a Sunday night, raining, and I am eating oatmeal
There is a language to be learned, a list to dominate

And I can't hear what's being said upstairs, but I can
Make out my mother's butterscotch laughter, my
Father's heavy-lidded footsteps, the sound of the
Icemaker and the rain. These are the things that

Make a childhood. Yet there is a butterfly effect to
This life. A waltz that you can't see, but you feel the
Big band strike up the music in your blood. Why
Are people always leaving? Spun round and round

In overlapping rotations. If only in this world
That is mostly linoleum and revolving doors
Things could be as familiar as my childhood staircase
As familiar as rainy Sunday nights and oatmeal