No Room for a Porch Light

My niece is working on the back of a menu,

adding a sun with yellow, spindly arms.

She puts a chimney on a lopsided roof

and a door with a knob the size of a fist.

I pick up my pen and try to follow along,

but the ink just wants to build a fortress.

I draw four walls, heavy and black,

pressing the ballpoint until the paper grooves.

There is no path leading up to the front.

I forgot the windows where the light comes in.

I just draw a box and then another box inside,

a safe, dark place with nowhere to breathe.

She asks me who lives there and I can't say.

I just look at the napkin, at the windowless hut,

and realize I’ve been drawing the same cage

since the year I started keeping my mouth shut.