Giggling, she runs from the family room couch
where I sit and count, both hands over my eyes.
“1,2,3,4,5 and 5 is 10. Ready or not, here I come.”
First, in the kitchen, opening and slamming cabinet
drawers and doors, “No, not here. Not here, either,”
repeated loudly lifting all four corners of the tablecloth,
again as I look under a chair cushion, behind the curtain,
then seek into the living room to flip pages of a book
on the shelf, “She's sure hiding good, where can she be?”
Muffled laughter in the closet, ever her same hiding spot,
as I pass the half open door, again not seeing her crouched
smiling presence as I continue my search into the hall.
“I wonder where that girl can be, I've looked everywhere.”
A tug on my pant leg, I turn around in wild surprise,
“Here I am, Papa, right here. See. You couldn't find me.”
“You certainly are a wonderful hider, much better than me.
Now it's my turn.” She counts with covered eyes as I slip
into the closet, same place I hid when her mommy was small.
Carl "Papa" Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University Place, Washington. He has seven chapbooks and a contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl has been nominated for the Micro Award and Pushcart Prize.
MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever