Of course he told, even as I lay here. 
Often, Frank and I played those poor 
car seat video games, and listened.

You are on your own, the sputtering said. You are to music in the playroom. You are not the same as on your own, I wrote.
We played Goldeneye and ate clementines. You were something wiry and laughing, 
only orange like orange light dying out.

We blew each other up 
by throwing carrots
at proximity mines.