after uncovering a dead snake in the sand pit
around the corner where the big kids go to smoke and
yell at each other, the smell of tangerines.
In the car home, I recount the day to Meagan's denim-clad
grandfather who insists my name is Trailor.
The grandmother smiles from the rear view mirror
as her oxygen tank bumps my knee for the fifteenth time.
We stop just before the lilacs
outside my parent's stucco.
He calls me Trailor.
Meagan laughs.
The door is unlocked.
On the couch, my mother watches tv. On the tv, two towers are burning. One falls.
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