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.