Cross legged, mounds of paisley, browned tan, gray, and
evergreen blanket wadded between our knees
to hole twin bowls of plain butter ice cream and cookies,
the television channel flips upward and down,
our sticky fingers printing alphabets to the remote's keys,
fighting to laugh with as little lung as possible to keep
our treats behind our teeth. The guide channel was nice.
Our war was inevitable. 43. 22. 54556. Ronald's tail wags
beneath the coffee table, happy to lick up flung crumb & cream
on the rug between midnight snack's giggles and our t.v.
