Let the boys not find what they found.
Let them take 2nd Street
to the pizza shop on Berks
rather than cut down Palethorp,
more alley than street,
as anyone around here knows.
Every house bulldozed.
Sidewalks overtaken by weeds
taller than the used car lot’s fence.
The empty lot’s cinder block wall.
Tall enough to swallow a sofa.
A car fender. Paint cans. Boards.
Ripped bags of garbage and clothes.
To hide for weeks two babies
who lived maybe an hour.
Who the boys thought were dolls.
Medical specimens, police said.
Umbilical cords still attached.
Let the boys go on thinking
they’re dolls. Let them be dolls.
Naked, wide-eyed baby dolls.
Faces blue and cut open.
Stomachs cut open.
Reeking of formaldehyde.
A boy and a girl.
One big, one small.
Hard to say if they’re twins.
Let the boys go on dribbling
behind their backs,
between their legs until
thin crust folds in their hands.
Let them go on.
Money tucked into soaked socks.
Ball echo the street’s sound.
Let the boys go on being 9 and 12.
Let them not find what they found.