Wall and floor consumed in madness.
Window breaks daylight over steep heaps of God knows what.
Child has just enough room to breathe.
Breathe child, for you can do little else.
A knock on the door strikes terror.
Climb and see.
Potluck ladies balance casserole dishes.
They angle for a peek inside.
Door slightly ajar, child replies.
No, we are not moving.
No, you cannot come in.
Child knows hospitality does not live there.
There is barely enough room for child.
What could potluck ladies bring to the mix, hmmm?
It takes practice to wear the blanket of shame.
It is heavy.