I see you there in your ivory bathroom dancing on the edge of the tub. I see you there in the weeds of your backyard wandering endless through the ant hills. I see you there in your living room standing over your bike. Get in the van. Go out for sushi. Six and then ten. You’re lost, aren’t you son? Elm Creek on a Saturday and seven stitches in the chin. Cut everything out back into smaller pieces and throw it in the fire. Someday you’ll learn. Someday the pancakes won’t taste right. Someday is Sunday and Sundays are for lunch. Load the pistols. Smoke the cigarettes. Stuff it all inside.