There were 6 different designs in your tract housing suburb.
That meant a one in 6 chance your crush grew up in a house
like yours. The kitchens were different. Maybe they had wood floors.

Yours were warped with vinyl. Still, 1/6 th of a chance the fridge
stood in the same spot. Zero percent chance their lola’s bed sat
in the dining room. So, they ate dinner at a table, in the spot

lola prayed decades of rosary. You had a 16 percent chance
of sleeping in the same room. But the odds were zero they ever
shared an old bunk bed with a cousin, fresh and raw out of the Army,

who, in their deepest sleep, screamed war. As you turned and tossed,
you longed for that crush to see you, feel you, and let you know everything
was going to be okay.

                                       They had said it once in class after you had fallen
                                       asleep. “We all get tired.” They shared their physics
                                       notes. Since then, wide awake, you dreamed
                                       of their lips and their smile and their dimples

like empty ceramic bowls. Every night, hungry
and hoping that if that 1/6th of a chance
that their house was the same as yours, then
their life could be completely different.