Milhouse

In the end, we released him,

giving him a head start that we thought was 
more than generous, considering everything.

We laughed to see him spin his eyes

in fear, trying in vain

to spot us where we hid

behind our blind of tangled vines.

From time to time we'd prick

him with our whittled sticks, just to see him twitch

and bleed out just a drop, one tiny bead. 

We chased him to a cul-de-sac
of stickerbushes, foliage so dense
and thorny he could not press on.

He hunkered down and huddled in a nest
of vegetation rank as rotting meat.
He staved off sleep for quite a while,

but finally succumbed, and dreamed

of lying in his soft pajamas 
and resting his beleaguered head

on a pillow plump with feathers,

stained with not a drop of snot or sweat 

while we, his children, burst like pinatas

and strewed our steaming bowels like streamers
to decorate the halls of his furry jungle 

as if to celebrate some grand event,

the joyful homecoming that would occur 

when he woke up.