Lindsay drew a portrait of a child for me.
We were seven years old together,
sitting with crossed legs on colorful carpets.
Getting rough in gym class, in hopes you would understand.
In rows, in sneakers, filing into heavy double doors, and out of the sun together.
You still had running in your legs,
and I still had jokes to tell you.
I kept my playground pistol close,
holstered by the back of my waistband,
a method i had seen practiced by men with guns in television shows.
We were given thirty minutes to rest on nylon cots.
but the two of us would be wide awake,
shooting toothy grins and nap time whispers in the dark.