I stacked beer cans way too young
to know their effect on you,
my designated caretaker,
the funniest thing in the room
until two shots were fired
and sobered the mood.
We would mis-reminisce the marks later
as pinhole constellations, we
dreamed were painted with purpose,
learning later of the abuse
not healed but passed on. At least
it was gutted before
the next buyers were warned.
So they could still picture
pitchers of lemonade and beer
on Sundays because the game is on,
and they worked hard all week.