I see them in a rhapsody, filtered through my then naiveté, and the aperture

of time. They were little arsonists all, aged five to eleven, deemed

too dangerous for foster care.

I remember wispy blond Jimmy, blue eyes wide, shrugging, Me don’t got no

underwears, until we found urine crusted pairs under his mattress.

Joey, taped glasses always smudged and askew, sashayed through the lunchroom

singing Boop de doop curls.

Solid seven-year-old Robert, who tackled rather than hugged me, with his sweet

voice and serious brown eyes, remained my favorite even after the day his incisors

clamped down on my thumb.

A smirk flashed over the face of smart-ass Tommy’s mother when we told her

The kids started a stealing club and your son was the ringleader.

I remember the stomp, stomp, clap, stomp, stomp, clap, as their voices

filled the TV room, singing We will, we will, rock you! at the top of their lungs.

They’re well into middle age now. Dare I hope

that they’re all still alive, that they’re healthy,

that they’ve forged the families

that they longed for then?