We played under the dim light in the dark basements
rarely upstairs, and this was the basement of choice.
The father, a school supply salesman, provided everything needed
to set up classrooms with dolls as our students.
The desks scraped the cement till we got them just right. 
We wrestled with papers, stacked the reams
filled in answers for our pupils
slid those red pens, corrected mistakes
our voices compassionate, hoping for something better
in our attempts at trying on adult lives

while our child bodies were deeply aware 
of the despair upstairs; the parents assigned to reams of silence
strife, working opposite shifts, scraping to make ends meet.
Any chance of correcting their mistakes, stacked against them.
                        

Woolen socks, black galoshes
A green bicycle tipped on its side
A navy coat with gold buttons
A pair of red shoes 
On the cold gray ground 
Arms, hands reaching
Having been tied, shot, raped
Bodies in Bucha, Ukraine lying 
Face to face, the world watching