On West Richardson Street, 
kids threw rocks at the pavement
until they chipped, then threw the shards
at each other. Their momma called
them in for dinner, named the dish
after a bold story, named it “How you think
you got here?” The purple and yellow
of their father’s bandana
swayed above the sweat
on her brow that night. Little dust
tornadoes followed the kids home;
small things always fake importance 
here. But if you walk through the baby 
twisters, your eyes are the only parts 
of your body that feel the dirt. 
One of the kids told a story at dinner: 
a man walked through a car wash
and let the hundreds of fluffy fingers
slap his body again and again.