In My Fifth Year
In my fifth year I sit beside my Dad in our car at night. We have gone out to get something, cigarettes or bread. We drive quietly, I think it is time we should have rejoined my mother and sister. Thinking of our room at the tourist court I ask "When are we going home?" Out of the dark, warmly as a little fire, my dad says "We don't have a home." I rise up like a butterfly, tumble in the air, and touch back on the carseat, moving through darkness.
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