Housing for Trust-Fund 1L's
On Robinhood Road every cracked brick splits
in the same interior cavity of clay slab,
frogged scars on the long faces, with ribbed
exterior aids plastering insulation for
the convience of the lay of an English bond;
scrape the cured concrete for a taste of its salt-
glazed surface. I try to look for some extruded
block or a trace of white powdered calcium silicate
smudged hard against cement, tearing skin-hide off
your now raw knuckles: so we know our home,
you say- but its just started to rain. I tell you:
this rain, the color white, deposits of gravel-
grit, and meaty skin reminds me of the hospital.
Eleven and lost among all the cream
stones, I was peeping-tom, looking for a man
named Tom, Thomas Craig, lying some
where in a recliner bed under all those stiff
cottons and rubber tubes, but every room--
roommate--wore the same colors of skin; only
a posted frame, numbered 229, sharpied: Craig
gave me a clue. I tell you about needing a name
plate, separate us and the neighbors, always
trying an identity-steal, alibing into the wrong
house on probable cause; at the moment, even
the kiln's fire could not dismantle red hues for clear
distinction. I hear sloshing wet tires treading behind
slowly, maybe the passengers inside will know. You ask
about direction, if the mailbox is black, if pavement's
grey? He only certainly knows our door is white-
wood. Trudging on, only two sets of thirty three
brick walls built in slated stretchers have white
wooden doors, one of which we know must
belong to us.
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