we stole it form
the supermarket the night
we got kicked out for
playing dodgeball with tomato
sauce. it felt like we
were epic when he shoved
me down side streets
like a retired ice cream
truck and repositioned my
fingers on the rims so they
would be symmetrical.
we woke some guy up and
he chased us with a
dusty broomstick, reversing
what he’d done sixty years
ago

he stopped it in the
church parking lot and
I read the realtor’s
name on the seat upside
down. her face looked
better that way and I
waved at it while he
let his palms smother
the grass. he said something
uncharacteristically deep but
he whispered it since he didn’t
want me to know it came
from him. it dissipated
before I could touch it

it was a Friday
night and we were the
only people resting. let’s sleep
here, I mumbled, my voice
corroded. he picked
up an abandoned
coupon and pushed it away
with his breath
it crashed silently on
the ground with an expired
sigh and he asked if there
would be enough room
for both of us

I stood up and landed
with the holy pavement shocking
my legs. I thought I might
almost be dying because we
didn’t buy any food and the
cart wanted to be
emptied
so I sat on the stoop and watched
him make a tableau on the
lawn like a homeless play
and tried to frame it with
glinting parallelograms