When they turn around I take my giant steps.
The ones I asked for. My dad works on the city.
I don't know why I'm scared
when tires hit gravel
but I know my blood tastes
like if I put a penny in my mouth. Eyes closed.
I wait for scratches on my face.
I love the awful way
the word "whisker" pictures how
a storm darks sky and does big
trees in the park. My dad's breath
smells like when the world goes away,
like when I hide in the green
fog behind "Old Abe," I put paper over the word
& rubbed it with my dirty thumb: Continental.
My dad warms it up. That means he leaves
it alone. I love the spooky way
running in the rain
streaks my dusty face to where I look like my own
ghost, or something sneaky, an egg stealer,
one that stays up all night.
Before it begins, I can smell cold rain
deep in my mom's hair where my fingers feel
the bumps start they start like when rain starts.
In my bed, alone. I hear
the house breathe. I love the only way
a summer wind blows night's long dress
down our empty street. In thru my open
window, a shadow
of a smile I can't see into crosses over my face
Visiting Hours at the Color Line