I’m starting to figure me out, he whispered,
sitting on the back steps of the house, his
right shoe (worn on the toe) scruffing the
concrete. I stood over him, watching him
watching me, and noted how the sinking
sun split his face into geometrics. His cigarette,
unpuffed, extinguished and the smoke that
trailed his left leg, untrailed. He glanced to the
woods shading that sun, and told me about
Jenny—that grade school friend that died,
her lips not yet blue for their first kiss. His
hand extended, I joined him on the steps,
my hand trailing the rail like jail cells or
monkey bars. We watched the sun dip into
treetops, and as his thumb grazed my thumb,
he said, I wish I remembered how to play outside.
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