Mike clutches a chunk of homemade bread in front of
a dirty American flag- Max on his left, in the kitchen,
washes dishes under a cabinet that says "CLEAN UP"

A rectangle of light falls perfect over your face.
I watch you sleep for -one, two, three seconds-
through the crack in the open door before I shut
it with a click. I want to take a photo, but I don't.

Back from then, you lean in the shade that buildings
provide and smoke a cigarette. I don't remember summers
being as hot as they are now. It's day time. We drink.

Somewhere in between here and there- we sit on folding
lawn chairs in the back of a van. It's winter and I root through
my pockets for chapstick. It's dark back there, no windows,
and my elbow bumps something as the chair slides when
we turn a corner- drum sticks clatter to the floor.

But further back now, cut feet from broken shells leave
bloody marks on uneven wooden floor boards. You dress
the wounds with shaky hands, I look away when it stings.

But further yet, a plain off-white coarse jump rope with
smooth wooden handles. It's cheap, I can feel it. I know,
from comparison, the other kids. The handles make dull
hollow sounds as I drag them across the pavement.

And even further- a yellow raincoat, borrowed in a courtyard.
A bed that takes up the whole room- a small space for sitting,
at the foot. A graveyard for pets and a pool. Coffee cans filled
with cement that anchor down our swing set.

These things, sometimes, I don't know.