the evening glow sinking into the bay
as he and his father walk back across
decaying wooden slats meant to be a path
but now more a series of paint-flecked splinters
and through a torn shirt, mosquitos
bring their persistent request for dinner
as he swats them away with tiny hands,
struggling to keep up with his dad
through a bent gate and into a yard where
shadows try to form shapes in the dim light
of the small yellow bulb by the back door
past the green plastic mat that reads "welcome"
and he washes his hands on tiptoes
listening to his mom singing a song to his
baby sister, who is ready for bed in every
way except sleepiness
and if he had his way, she'd have a bigger room,
a real bed, and more than the one doll, and his mom
would have a shiny lamp to read by, and his dad
wouldn't have to leave for work at 3:45 am
but he does his best to make them proud,
putting away the dishes his mom washed and
thinking about how he will learn and work and how
they will buy whatever they want at the grocery store
