Bubblegum pillows, my mother's
brown socks, and sleeping as tight
as a root beer barrel.

When I was ten I collected
bubble gum under my pillow--
A showcase furnished by
orphaned nickles and 
green ocean foam pennies
I would scour for coins in the 
depths of warm sock chasms
and the foothills of mismatched
mittens in the laundry closet--
this was no man's land
this was where we all
fumbled in the morning to
put together a person
from clothing that
smelled like a pile of rain
-- sometimes
I wore my mother's socks 
and felt different and sneaky
and older and tired like
a pillowcase--
The dollar store had been my jeweler-- 
I had wanted one of every
color--evidence of my regalia 
from the bottom bunk bed
of the rain forest-- kissed
pillow blue goodnight-- 
these are sapphire raspberry gum
orbits--stripes of orange and 
kiwi stacked like my uncle's
staircase that winces
when you climb it to bed-- 
A handful of prisms and confetti
to chew into distorted rainbow--
this is what it smells like after it
rains-- like wilting caramel 
and pillowcases--
and bed time stories coiling
shiny candy wrapper wrinkles--
slept blow pop scepter and
a dream of my father-- gas station
stops on the way to Fleetwood where
we bottled ourselves up 
in the blankets of root beer barrels--
bubble gum blow a dream into 
the blue again where he discovers
I'm wearing my mother's 
brown socks that smell like
rain or raspberries-- We put-on
each other's shirts for bed--
my father's Beatles ts down
to me knees back into another
bubble gum night
where I count my sugar gems
before bed--
This is my dynasty from under the covers
This is where I tell my brother
bed time stories
of dollar stores and gas stations--
someday I want my living 
room to feel like a dollar store--
with enough quarters you
can buy every piece of me-- 
these jewels were meant to be swallowed
into dreams--
but only if you dig in the 
valley of socks-- make puppets
with your hands and laugh--
laugh like bubblegum you 
were always a princess here--
we don't actually believe in 
quarters in my living room--
we believe in finding
sapphire raspberry gumballs in
the seat cushions and kissing
blue goodnight in a pillow--
walking in the socks of our mothers 
and feeling crafty and sly-- 
and careful not to 
wake the sleeping gem stones
hidden beneath our heads--
My whole family sleeps 
like root beer barrels
and tells bed time stories from
bottom bunks.
Some night I wake up and 
forget that I still have
quarters left over from
the washing machine-- but 
I spent the last ten years
eating my way through a collection
of jewels-- now I sleep
like blankets-- smell root beer
barrels on my wrists--
whisper to my father to turn
out the night light 
in my bed room alone with
the sound of raspberry
and the smell of rain falling
on the doors to
the laundry closet--
I wake up in 
my mother's brown socks.