At Fourteen

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.)

In

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.