His mind was raised on milkshakes and fairytales.
He imagined he lived in a brown boot with laces to swing on. He imagined his mum cooking soup instead of children.
He imagined mum taking huge slurps of cigarette smoke instead of kiddie smoke.
He can smell their burnt ashes.
He pictures their crestfallen faces in the fire
fear and fury as they fought the flames.
But he remembers a sweet smile promising soup, not too hot or too cold.
Manic mondays were welcomed by a milkshake.
He watched: mice climb the clock, it rang loudly at nine pm. He imagined a giant green stem near his shoe window.
He could see wonderland in his dreams,
A pen of purple ponies with wings, a milkshake in hand. No more kiddie screams or burnt ashes on the floor. No more hide n seek in his room.