ROOM

The last thing I drew in my sketchbook

was my daddy’s messed-up car.

My fingers take over,

and before I know it,

I’ve drawn a room

I’ve never seen before.

What is it? Charlie says.

I jump. She sits down

on the side of my bed.

Nothing, I say.

I try to shove the sketchbook

under my pillow.

The page tears

from its spiral.

Did she see the whole room,

that white man on the floor,

the other men standing by him

and the blood puddle,

black on wood?

Does she know

I’ve drawn my daddy

and the man he killed?

Did she read the question

I wrote on the table:

Why would a man

beat another man

to death?

I’m really sorry, Paulie,

Charlie whispers so soft

I almost don’t hear it.

My nose burns.

Charlie might be

my only friend in the world.