Unzipped in the hallway,
a pair of platform boots.
The suede, chartreuse and pooled.
On each, a track of superfluous buckles collapsed.
I hope you don’t mind they’re sleeping in my bed.
I slept downstairs, my teenage son says.
They’re not she, not he, but they.
Okay, I say, why don’t you make pancakes.
They float into the kitchen, yellow rivulets
painted in their dark flounce of hair,
bellybutton pierced with silver, catching the light,
as they lean against the counter
to watch my son crack eggs.
When I finish high school, I’ll farm.
I want to kneel in the dirt, they say,
work with my hands.
Like Copernicus, they’ve figured something out,
observed the shes and hes
working on laptops at all hours
making nothing anyone can see.
They’ve heard about the iPhone worker
leaping from a factory window in Shenzhen.
And they’ve felt the sun rise hotter again
while we set our cups to catch the coffee
frothing from our brew machines.