I sit with the fat uncles on the back lot.
I used to chew with them. They used to hang
all over me. Make us wish we were daddies. We
don’t like to do narrative. One of them reminds
me of me in drag. Pants dropping, teeth unstable.
The uncles are vicious but only when they run
out of cigarillos. A couple of razor blunts. Coupla
cherry stems. I don’t smoke with ’em though I
admire the roll. I tell them so. We spit in squat
tubs. We sit on a slab. Once I climb a rickety stairwell
and find ourselves cold in a trap house. That’s not
what they call it now. With the heaters on. The lack
of box spring, headboards. I feel cheap white
paint for them. Chip on the wall. I can never tell
what kind of house I’m in. Some of them leather
couch. Some of them stroll through in socks. I
bring my bike up and keep it locked to the porch
out back with the toys. We get the two-liter cokes.
We watch the sunset in pink. It isn’t all about sex.
Though some of them do like to implicate culture.
drift off before we can talk. The uncles might be past
due on the rent. Or might get us a cake from the store.
Either way we bump whatever from the radio. Whatever
station we land on. I like that hardwood floor they got.
Ceiling fan like chandelier. In the backyard firepit. It’s
either dinner or damage. One of them calls himself
woo-woo. One of them walks me back up the block.
Copyright © 2026 by francine j. harris. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 8, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
