If I am growing up, why do I feel so small?

I reach up to touch countertops,
peering over the edge of the dinner table,
I wait for crumbs to drop.

Parental units move like slow-sliding icebergs,
blocking my view,
and frost coats the windows,
blocking the street.

I hear cars passing,
each rambling over rocks, potholes, snow,
but I cannot go -
cannot slip like dust through the cracked door,
cannot cling like dog hair to winter coats.

No, I just sit, waiting
in front of an empty box covered with pictures.
On the couch is my spot, mindlessly mesmerized
by the nothingness of daytime,
waiting for the somethingness of night.

When to-do lists pile up at my bedside
and my eyes crack like frozen cat’s eye marbles.
When I pray for dreams, entertainment, escape
from this house, this day,
this time constantly ticking.