There they were, my children.
There, my son.
There, my daughter
There were also the neighbors
and the trees growing in their yards.
The lawnmowers humming
in slight distances.
There, the lawmakers
and city council people.
There, a cop car.
There, terror looming in a village.
There, my love, my wife,
standing above wings.
Everywhere, a dirty mirror.
Cracked slabs of dinner.
My children, those ape years,
are folding into napkins.
We remove the napkin
and place it under the brain.
The brain is damp
on the table.
Elsewhere, children
of servers,
of shopkeepers.
Everywhere, others.
My headed is scooped
out and the potato grows.
Where? Everywhere.
My kids? Wee maps.
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