Last Shot

Without time and days in rooms
without windows and loud music raining
around the walls, there we kept the mom
out of it, sketching pictures
of sad hillbillies and clowns
walking three legged dogs. Red snow cones
dripping on their snouts. Outside we filled
up the blue plastic wading pool,
lounging like broken days, moving it, staying
in the shadows. The day’s heating so real
we composed soundtracks for it. Practicing our
Spanish because we never knew when one of our
crazy tios would appear carrying an ice chest
and an alligator. If we didn’t answer correctly
and quickly we received nalgadas.

Often others arrived carrying opened bottles of booze.
Chairs pulled near the small blue wading pool,
tunes turned louder. We all sang
along, because we knew what summer days were for.

If Curtis arrived, he insisted we find the Giant’s game
on the radio. We’d cheer for Bonds, and mock the redneck
Kemp. The day picked up pace until the last shot. The diminishing
bottles looking sad, like the myth where the sun stops rising.
This was youth wasted? We were once happier,
but it only lasted a quiet long walk
on the beach watching the baby turtles swim into the surf.
The big birds acting indifferent overhead.