Folding Up The Street

You came to visit, uninvited/unannounced. Slept with your feet under my head on the side of a street in The Mission. I told everyone I’d been camping, which was true, in a way. The tent was shaped like the husk of a cartoon bear. I said it could fit six people. They all stood around it expectantly, skeptics from backpacking trips. There was only room for one. The tent smelled of sour wine. My mother found me sleeping on the street. She folded the street up and brought it back from the west coast to home. You were turning into a little boy but your feet stayed the same size. Your voice was clear when you told her you’d always wanted to meet her. She nodded and did not ask who you were.