A poem.

It is implied that a brunette would have knocked,  

brought along a sack lunch,

sat on the porch,

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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.


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