i hear his father wishes they hadn t bickered over politics so much of their time spent in argument and bitterness when wouldn t he have preferred to help build his son s house to haul the beams lay cement to do it right the first time but what he didn t know is the house was his boy before it and he collapsed without warning trapping those outside howling for help from god from jesus from the same parties who d withheld his lover from his bed through the grapevine nowhere now in this emergency but their cries grow quieter and darker like all sirens chasing answers from professionals like penance from priests whose costumes become grotesque walls of waiting for any explanation as if it could exhume him and restore him to twenty two and skinny fidgeting in his bed tasting cities to decide where to build and blare his embarrassing music like a tea kettle that s singing i m ready come pick me up 