That Year

My brother and I on a roof,

cardboard pizza box between us.

The city far below—aloof,

indifferent to our fungus

of small joy. No plans,

no one else invited.

Just grease on my hands,

the cold pizza delighted

by hours of sitting,

the cheese gone solid again.

Our legs hanging, fitting

perfectly over the edge. Then

he told a joke. I don't

remember the words, just

his laugh. I won't

forget that. The gust

of wind, the city lights,

my brother laughing—

that was my birthday night,

the best. No crafting,

no plans. Just cardboard

and cold cheese and the sense

that we could have stayed there,

that small, that immense.