We were more patches than pants
even our cats had holes in them
from the BB guns and abcesses
which regenerated themselves
using tongues as sharp as the underside
of wild berry leaves, all of life
was an abrasive yet it kept us
from going soft on the outskirts.
Back then with our brother's jeans
rolled up to our knees
we stood and waited for the socks
to be darned, we stood and waited
for the time to pass, we stood
and we waited and we stood
and our shadows left traces