Camping

We wanted
To go camping.
So I dragged my
Play-tent outside,
The thin mesh sort
In chunks
Of primary colors.

Our mother brought
A tarp,
Our father gave us
A flashlight.

I was seven,
And he was four.

We slept nestled in
Blankets, my broken-arm
Cast itchy on my wrist.

We woke again in darkness,
A rustling outside the thin,
Useless fabric.

I was bigger, so I peeked out
The windows.
A mother raccoon and her babies.

She seemed confused.

My brother peeked past me,
Squealed,
And ran inside to our parents.
I followed,
A frightened child.

They took us back outside,
Showed us the empty yard,
And tucked us back in our tent.

Daddy showed us Orion,
His belt big and awkward on his
Starry waist.
I fell asleep as he whispered.

We wanted to go camping,
So we went in our backyard.