We were sitting on a bus full of children.
I was drawing pictures of rocket ships.
I was climbing the powerlines outside your window.
There was a radio playing in the background.
Your father was a fat Southerner with blue overalls and a moustache.
Your mother was a black Georgia soul singer with friends who loved to cook.
I woke up in your house, your mother was whispering to me.
I could just make out your face through the crack in the doorway.