Lookin’ at the base
of the house, I

see it’s become a
soot-smeared beach, split

apart by crumbling crevices,
unlike your young hands.

Rockin’ in the cedar-
scented chair you made

me, I smush my
eyes under leather palms

‘til I see us
swingin’ in that sparse

living room and you
dippin’ me head-first

into the dang radio.
Sippin’ cold coffee at

the sun-lit table,
in this awful hushed

house, I know I
don’t want more cold

trophies. Just your smile
spillin’ hot tea down

your chin once more.