My father was born in a white house.
All night I wish I was less and more, less and more.
His house had two porches.
All day I go places to survive, to find.
He had three sisters; two were dark like him.
But I never get to run and my bones are getting soft.
Now they take care of him by saving all the pictures.
The city pressed my feet into obsolete, flat things.
He also had two brothers, one at each end of his life.
I sit in towers and curse the concrete, crying.
Now they take care of him with pints and bottles of gold.
I've never had lemonade that wasn't from a bottle.
He lived near a quarry that taught him to climb.
I fear seeing my bones because I might find blue plastic.
His father fixed cables after the war gave him children.
I have a war that is pushing me downward.
Where did I come from on this dead spinning rock?