A backwards soda can taunts me
With the words "Very low sodium".
I cannot help but wonder
What life is like outside this room.
I embrace it as my personal space.

The word "garage" imparts a feeling within me:
A place of creativity, not at all mundane.
Yet I say this as I do
The same thing I did yesterday,
What I plan to do tomorrow.

My father used to sit where I sit,
For hours upon hours,
Paving trails in the Telnet universe,
Earning heaps of experience points,
Being careful not to annoy the arch-wizards,
In a drunken stupor.

My mother would stir me
From my spot facing the television.
Give me the job of messenger
To inform my father of some reality or another.

He would click to another window
As I approached the garage.
I don't know why he bothered;
I knew that he was playing RetroMUD,
Instead of doing some other work.

Maybe he had a secret life within the game.
Sometimes I hide my conversations
When someone comes to the door.
I wonder what other things I learned from him.