No one wanted to go back there.
They didn't want to tread on top of dusty magazines.
Or look out of windows coated in yellow sheens.
And the less they looked the more they forgot.
Until they didn't even know what it was that they fought.
The doors separating the front from the back were permanently locked.
And the locks were all rusty and blocked.
The children knew only the sight of those closed doors.
Never opened, merely eyesores.
Then one day a curious son.
Slipped his hand onto a knob and turned it, hoping to have fun.
With a creak the door opened and dust settled all around.
And he coughed, then he looked, and you know what he found?
He found a place where he could always play.
And not have to worry about what to say.
If he slipped away at the right time.
The broken perfection was all finally fine.
Since no one else ventured where no one else was.
No one was there to see him do as he does.
He does what he does when he is alone.
In a way that's different, in a way more at home.
And he tried all the doors and he unblocked all the locks.
The forgotten half of the house was inhabited by a little foxy fox.
The family went on living as though nothing was new.
Their eyes never noticed the missing member of their crew.
By dinner he arrived often hitting his mark.
And in his eyes you could see a fiery spark.
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