My will is on the back of a receipt—Chap Stick, Chex
Mix, and Red Bull
on the front. Cody’s five day old beard is a wild
fox; raging, red and brown.
My heels jab in the floor, my knees tighten, and my
eyes twitch as a
loose wire suspends from the unfinished ceiling. The
landlord flips off the hot
water and Kelly screams curses her parents don’t
care about anymore. I hear
a toddler yell for his dad—I hope he holds him, and never lets go.
My eyes roll back in the holes of my head like a
train runs through a tunnel—
I’m running with train. I cough up loose pocket
change—the last
bit of hope left in me. A bald man with an earring
yanks me into the moving train
and begins to paint a portrait of me. He dips the
brush in black flames and scribbles
his product because I am ineligible and
impoverished. A woman with raisin skin
waves goodbye as I get kicked off the train—my eyes
open on the other side of the tunnel.
I offer to do the laundry and collect quarters like
a biblical tax collector. I pass
Denny’s and a wooden playground—the air reeks of
changing seasons and polluted
river water. I settle into a cream, cold, and creaky
chair and cross my arms like
a disappointed father—just like mine.
I throw my life in with the load hoping it washes
out every stain and regretful mistake.
I want to go home, but the doormat is too clean for
me. 
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