Sparkling to Still

A white kitchen

with tiles resting in a squared, checkered pattern

freezes

the touch of a toe.

The marble counter is almost empty,

with nothing but leftover burnt smush on an

untouched plate.

The windows are latched shut

to hide

the unfamiliar view.

Swing sets and treehouses

transformed into short driveways and bus stops.

The new, plastic scent tries to wash out the memory

of mom’s freshly baked banana bread.

Feet are rooted in front of the metal sink with his fists

digging into the counter, like plastic shovels in the sand.

The tap is left open, slightly

and begins to weep.

Drip, drip.

His eyes stay stationed on the sink.

Drip, drip.

As the liquid hits his cheek.