I’m sitting at a summer family reunion, the smell of fresh-cut grass and burgers
in the air. Too small for baseball with my cousins, bored by adults around the
picnic table, my mind drifts to my first Halloween—months before, when I walked
the streets of our neighborhood, a bed sheet ghost asking for candy.
You’d think my partner would be kind
enough to remove his boyfriend’s
water glass from my side of the bed.
My daughter and I are stopped on the street when a homeless man
approaches us and asks: Where were the police when that gang of thugs
cut off my dick?