THE MIDDLE DRAWER
was the only thing ever out of place on Shawn’s side of the room,
like a random, jagged tooth
in a perfect mouth,
jammed tight between the
top drawer of shirts
folded into neat rectangles
stacked like project floors,
and the bottom drawer of socks and underwear.
Off track. Stuck. Forced in at an angle.
Seemed like the middle drawer
was jacked up on purpose to keep me and Mom out
and Shawn’s gun in.