Half-formed, half-bearded, half-dressed and yelling. Three, four, five, cascading into the backyard. Fists up, challenging and dismissing each other's aggression. Unwarranted tackling, tumbling, grabbing. Competition running deep as the cuts on his knee. Puppy dog tails had nothing to do with it. He was living on a steady diet of summer grass and Gatorade. Question him and he will promptly reply, devoid of all doubt, that he is waiting for Superman. How long you ask yourself.
He never elaborates, never dreams anyone could be confused by his words. He stumbles out of bed, off to war, every day, and returns as the moon does. His instincts are all he has. Guarded, distracted. His barrel chest puffs out so his words don't have to. He keeps them in his pocket, next to his Swiss Army Knife. Always scratching the spot between his shoulder blades.
The only quantifiable sign of life is how much sweat pours off of him onto the pavement.
