In the seventies, housing developments
(Kensington Homes, Castlewood Homes,
companies my father works for as a
real estate salesman) transform our town
into a suburban landscape; in every direction
we walk past the framed floor plans
of our future.
(It’s true this might be
the stuff of complicated narratives.)
River Heights and Tuxedo kids swim
their in-ground pools; under the cover
of night, we walk the wood planks, enter
the next moment through half-framed
doorways, then dip in, pass the mickey,
and front-crawl through the liquid
air, scraping the basement with our
wrangler-clad knees, breast strokes
taking us from the shallow
into the deep end of 360s.
How beautiful it is, lost and lonely,
and passed out on the concrete floor.