Sons and Screenplays

Gary Burgess

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 
breeze.

He reminded us then that we slept in the 
coolest houseboat on the bay. Rolling 
over around nine
he left in his Mustang
for L.A.

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.