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