Sick DayA Poem by Steve KittellA sick day adventureBright
sunny day, nothing to do. Stuck
at home in bed with the flu. Watched
TV as long as I could. And
did some homework, like I should. I
tossed and I turned, sipped some tea. The
warm fall day was mocking me. Temperature
stable, chills no more. Then a
knock on my bedroom door. It was
mom come to check my head. Not
hot or cold, then out of bed. I passed
her test, done with my rest. Going
outside will be the best. But
that is not to be the way. Had to
stay in another day. Picked
at supper, slept through TV. Dad
tucked me in then read to me. Just
to make sure that I’m all right. Mom
checked on me all the long night. Slept
Okay, woke ready to go. But to
do what I didn't know. Was really
bored by midday. Ran
out of things alone to play. Then
found a key looking for more. I
tried every single door. I
checked and checked every lock. I even
tried the grandfather clock. Every
drawer, box and chest, I
checked them all, I did my best. Found
no treasure, just this old key. At
least it was something to amuse me. With
just minutes before my show, Thought
of another place to go. The
dusty, dark, spooky attic, No
place to be, when you are sick. Turning
the knob ever so slow, Not
sure if I wanted to go. I’ve never
been up there alone. Then
opened the door to the unknown. Creaky
stairs beneath my cold feet. Dangers
unknown that I might meet. Darkness
at the top of the stair. Felt
for the switch, I hoped was near. With a
flick my fear gone away. More
to explore on my sick day! Much
the same as when last here, Boxes and
cobwebs everywhere. But
not a lock to be found. I
searched and searched all around. But in
a dark corner never seen, A
little door painted green. It had
no slot for any key. Opening
it was up to me. I admit
I was very scared. I
stood for minutes and just stared. Then lifting
the latch, my hands shake. Could
this be another mistake? Opened
the door, hinges squeak. Stuck
in my head to take a peek. The
room’s empty, nothing at all, Except
a shelf high on a wall. Found
an old wobbly chair nearby. Standing
worried, reaching too high. Pulled
down the box hidden on shelf. More
than ever proud of myself. I put
in my key and it fit. But
wasn’t ready to open it. I
brought the box back to my room. Into
the light and out of the gloom. Box on
desk, took key from pocket. Put it
in slot, turned to unlock it. Opened
the lid ever so slow. Not
sure if I wanted to know. What
treasures lie hidden from view? Something
good or a pile of goo. Lid
half open, footsteps I hear. Then
closed the lid when mom came near. Mom
opened it up, said to me; “That’s
no place for a dragon to be. I’ve
looked high and low, all over, For
the dragon Gramp’s called Rover. He
wasn’t a creative guy. But
could pluck dragons from the sky. But
only when they’re very small, Safe
in hand and curled in a ball. Then
hid for a terrible day, When there
are demons to chase away. You
can visit, never at night, That’s
when dragons grow, in moonlight. So
keep it tiny in its box - Or
they get huge and tough as rocks. Some
are sweet, most others mean. That’s
why it best to keep unseen.” Closed
the lid before I could see. She
turned the lock and kept my key. “You
don’t need to go by yourself. Attic’s
safe with dragon on shelf. Put
the box back and close the door. And
try not to think of it anymore.” Back downstairs,
ready for bed. But
now there’s a dragon in my head. They
can be all colors or shapes, Some
are purple and round like grapes. Some are
short, some tall as a tree, Some are
small and cute just like me. I’m
glad there’s a dragon upstairs. Now I
can sleep without nightmares. Not
such a bad sick day at all. I got
better and had a ball. Now
when nothing to do or see. I
don’t have to search for a key. You
don’t need keys to unlock a door. That’s
what imagination’s for.
The
End © 2014 Steve Kittell |
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Added on September 24, 2014 Last Updated on September 24, 2014 AuthorSteve KittellIn the shadow of Windmill Cottage, East Greenwich, RIAboutHaving suffered almost fifty years of writers block I'm back, picking up exactly where I left off, as a mischievous five year old. Current chidren's poems can be seen at: http://www.childrens-stori.. more.. |

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