Born without a rattle, you played quietly. Writing in the dark; friends imaginary. You dressed three for me: one for the money, the second for strength, and the third to call father. I lost mine, like any good boy would, along with fears and questions.
I found you running again, barefoot, this time through the city. One clearing held, supported by four drinks. We stopped long enough to hold hands and strip my laces. Through sex and cigarettes we made a family. Our house of sheets held to trap and defend, keep safe and suffocate. Each child given a name was born.
By car and bicycle they came, too many to count. Each with a smile to keep and hand to hold. Less float than ambulance, we processed with the urgency of blood. The moon, through skyscraper skylines, held us magnets. Steps to strides, crawling to gallop, our noses ran over our lips to hold sweeter each escaping tongue.
I made it through first. Falling, I gave it a name. You called it America.