Ode to the Mudroom

Put a rug on a linoleum floor, it becomes a mat,
backdoor welcome no one knows exists except for the boy who sleeps
inside the slip, in a room with three doors and no closets
the kind that exits the moment he rushes to the bathroom
after waiting too long to excuse himself
figuring it'd happen anyway, eventually,
That his friends would leave him while he was gone for a moment
or sleeping,
without a goodbye, or a goodnight,
or a even a hurried greeting in the morning
Sleepover bonded days instead of friends,
who left like they disappeared, were never there.
This isn't rational
How I cling
like a rusted bike pedal to loose shoe lace
to the coil of company.