since everything always became more than it seemed
apartments turned into treehouses and night clubs,
with Stephanie sleeping on couches
between road trips to Kent County,
and a hot Fourth spent laying smoke bombs,
despite our political rage,
smoke bombs that fizzled out in blurry colors,
blue and green to match Ben's fading hair,
or the lawn-clipping taste of Allison's marijuana cookies
chocolate, coconut, plenty for everyone.
And even if J.D. slept through the potluck,
and our air conditioners failed, leaving Adam
with a sweaty white-boy afro
even if we had to work at towel factories
and onion-scented supermarkets,
sooner or later someone would pick up a guitar,
and joke about selling babies,
or suggest drunken Monopoly,
and everything we wanted out of life
seemed absolutely, undeniably possible
whenever Adam cackled, "we'll make millions,"
stuck deep in the belly of a fat, sticky summer.