Tulips waiting to bloom in schoolyards. Children in wellies stomp the alphabet into the street. Streetlamps bend over, I am not yet a trampoline. I’m pining for a soon-to-be stepmother of three. Her reflection meets mine in a stale puddle of milk. All the town’s clocks died. I missed every train; trains shouldn’t arrive on the same track. I’ll eat away her guilt. I fought in a war I let...