It is implied that a brunette would have knocked,
brought along a sack lunch,
sat on the porch,
texted daddy for permission.
She would have carried a trail map,
checked the house number, known by the curl
of smoke that bears were around.
Toffeelocks would have tested the bowls
against her cheek, would never have
gone to sleep at the scene of the crime.
Instead, only baby bear's chair,
oatmeal, and bed seem just right
for the eponymous blonde who
wants only to open doors as we turn pages,
papa bear's hot breath blasting
over our just-right couches, giving us
a perfectly good reason to run
shrieking into the forest, thrilled
to be alive in our own perspiring skin.