I read a book
and the man thinks
I can not see
the wrinkld posture 
of his son
as he is nudged.
He thinks
I can not sense
four eyes
upon my flesh
as the father tries
to bond with
his teenage boy
by ogling my breasts.

                   We looked in the fridge only to see moldy Kraft singles
                   and some eye cream.  That eye cream was our pride and 
                   joy, so extravagant and luxurious, it made us feel rich.
                   The cracked walls of the bathroom fading away into the
                   small lights of her tiny vanity mirror.

                   We may have had no food, but we knew the eye cream was
                   all we needed--we were both young, with pretty faces and a
                   lot of faith in the system.
                        Some men would take us out.

                   I turned off the TV.
                   Looked out the window
                   to the streets below.
                   Dry sidewalks.
                   A line had straightened up
                   stiff as uncut ribbon
                   beneath a sign
                   that read Arny Headquarters.

                   I stared at the boys' faces.
                   They looked ichy and awkward
                   like my brother's.  I don't know
                   what kept them in that line,
                   the sun was hot and unrelenting.
 
                   I wondered if my brother
                   would stand in line, too.
                   I wondered if it would take him somewhere.
                   I wondered if all of the brothers
                   in all the world were leaving,
                   and if there would be only us sisters left
                   to occupy the empty rooms
                   with doll clothing and postcards.