I was never sure if I liked the
smell of his house,
Mac and cheese, always mac and
cheese.
As a den of memories, carefully
tucked away in the corridors of my mind,
There could be worse smells
associated with this Golden Age.
The blue carpet was a rough, matted
mess,
Each prickling fiber creating new
wrinkles of childhood delight.
Their fruit roll ups tasted the
best,
As does anything that you take
without asking.
My friend, my best friend, hated
that I loved video games so much.
Yet for all his miniature
brilliance,
There was an acceptance of me,
And my scrambled, electronic preoccupation.
And my scrambled, electronic preoccupation.
When I think back to those days,
dominated by my friend’s ridiculous bowl cut,
I think of myself blowing into the
reaches of that magic box.
I think of the red, 8-bit curtain
rising on a hulking tube television,
With a friend sitting by my side.
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