The boys exhale simultaneously,
two lungs of a single body
spitting smoke into the sky.
The elder squints into the greasy sunlight,
ugly smears of cloud marring the November horizon,
a rust
colored
wound
sending pangs through the grey body of light,
and pain through the smaller body below.
Elder eases himself onto the sidewalk,
folding evenly between the pavement and brick
in neat, clean 45 degree
angles,
collapsible.
He knew just what the sky reminded him of:

Seeing scars like that on his father.
Tubes to eat for him,
breathe for him,
piss for him
to BE for him…
sinister snake-like apparatus
worming their way from the throat and chest of the man
who held his mother’s porcelain hands…
surrounded by the rusty gashes, new openings.
So unbearably alive,
A broken- down machine.

Closed eyes, tilted head,
the boy is counting Ion) his breaths.
He glances out of his corner;
the other boy, now sitting beside him.

Elder needn’t speak; he knows they’re thinking the same thoughts,
two memories of a single mind.
Smiles to himself.
Explaining wasn’t something you have to do, with a brother.
Thinking the same,
constantly.
Naturally.

Younger brother stretches,
scratches,
yawns,
crouching in the cracks,
and mentally stacking the girls
he’d like to fuck.