He smells pretty bad David says I send him inside For a glass of water And help Michael sit up. Let’s take this off, I say He lets me remove The puke-ripe T-shirt And slumps there As I toss it away His spine curled Each vertebra like a knife That might cut him open From the inside. Jesus, David says. Michael drinks the water Where’s your mom? I ask David. He shakes His head. She’s done With me, Michael says. Dad won’t even let him In his apartment anymore I help David bring him inside And lay him out on his bed Surrounded by towels. You should go, David says Mom will come home I suppose eventually She’ll be embarrassed If she finds out you know.