Poem #5: Play Homeless with Me

My oldest asks my youngest: “Do you want to play homeless?”
and they build a house of pillows and blankets
in the middle of our living room.

Earlier that morning, atop the Shelby Bridge,
we huddled and smiled through chattering teeth—
the four of us, tight like a pact, looking down
at the bone cold river, the boats, the steam,
and then we spotted the makeshift shelter way below
on the bank of the Cumberland.

From that distance, we could make out movement
and we stared until we realized something was waving at us.
"It's a man!" my son shouted, pointing.

Even on the bridge, the burn of privilege warmed our frozen cheeks,
the privilege of being able to withstand the January cold
because we did not have to stay out in it,
the privilege of our coats, hats, and gloves,
the privilege of knowing we were just on a walk
and that back in our minivan, we would thaw
in the blast of heat, and drink water from our thermos,
and our car would deliver us safely
back to our home,

where my children can play
homeless
whenever they want.