my brother and I run between tents
hold our noses around the trash piles
slip and slide through some mud
and reach the broken slabs of cement
scramble up and over sandals
skidding on the broken glass
turn down an alley we’ve never been
and reach a burned-out truck
open the doors and climb in
it stinks like rotten meat red pieces of glass
cover the charred seats and floor
above us a jagged hole in the roof
while I turn the wheel and pretend
to drive making engine sounds
my brother leans across the shaft
of sunlight and opens the glovebox
pulls out a curled burned photo
of a man a woman and a child
I’ve seen that kid at the camp
sitting alone with an old woman
I remember he just stared
when I waved
she was busy eating something
and he held a spoon
I never saw it move
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