the rain is spattering the roof like
machine gun fire
a puerto rican gave me
a sandwich, tried to
make me laugh
in this place
made for tears
and an indian girl
lets out a primal scream
and throws a chair
across the room
the way i did at eight
the year the boys
discovered me
everyone asks
if i’m writing of them
i tell them no
i’m writing about
space and time
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