Marla roots under the stairs,
uncovers
a bucket and spade
laced with spiderwebs.
She holds them aloft.
I can’t dance all day long,
I’ve only one pair of knees.
I need to get out of the house.
So do you.
No way. It’s tipping down, I say. No way.
Marla finds a raincoat and hands it to me.
I want to build something, she says.
I want to get dirt in my toenails.
I live near the beach, don’t I?
I can smell the sailors.
I hesitate,
watch her hopeful eyes,
wonder whether or not to lie
about how close we are to the sea.
I mean, I could.
I could easily lie.