His rug was shag as high as an army man and had
pillows you could fit two brothers on.
In the mornings, the seaplanes left us lying there by his
charcoals and paints, our windows open to a pajama
He reminded us then that we slept in the
coolest houseboat on the bay. Rolling
over around nine
he left in his Mustang
Around ten his friends came over,
sewing patches on each other.
He came home with a flask from the flea market and
tacos for us. The sun
had bleached his smile and cut his jeans off.
On days like that, Mike wanted to be
in his screenplay, we all did. That was a weekend wish as
we flew kites off his roof
and he threw pillows at us
like we weren't even related.