maybe that was happiness – murky, unclear and unreliable but bright enough to blind me to tomorrow, before tomorrow became more than I could fit into my pockets. when it was enough for a breeze simply to make the clothesline creak, I’d roll from the concrete path onto soft grass – all grass was soft to a young boy – and the scent of hewn earth would creep across me. there, yellow fibreglass could splay sunlight across the back step, dust motes in a spinning goldrush.
it was always summer; the neighbourhood stray accepted any food we left out. the highway was a nascent thunder.
tomorrow thin as rumour
my life a tiny bullet
as I ricochet off everything