When the boats were still
on streets, the cars
in trees, the houses
roofless, we slept
on Bucky Sanders' trampoline.
I told him I lost my sleeping
bag before Lindsay Windemere
could say she lost her pajamas.
I felt his legs through
the fabric of his pants. Thin,
muscular. His face began to tighten.
Lindsay, somewhere on the edge
of the trampoline, huffed.
In the dark, he grew
closer. I heard him
groan. Suddenly, I felt wet
soak through his pants, into mine.
It stank of urine.
When the sun allowed,
we all washed
the clothes and bags
in the water up his driveway.
Lindsay laughed. From a distance,
I heard Mrs. Sanders, "That's just
being American."
