the brick arrives
through the living room window
with the speed of intent
glass and shag carpet mix
in the moon’s light
we awaken, six sets
of sleepy doe eyes widen
from our permanent camp
on the living room floor
our mothers race in
squawking, braids undone
trailing bloody footprints
fathers lit with anger
stand silent, measuring
the distant sound
of squealing tires, brazen
as the street returns
to midnight silence
we gather the glass, the brick,
set them aside
with the band-aid wrappers.
