"It's gone," Tom said. "The van is gone."
He pulled on those big high-top CONS tennis shoes, unlaced.
"I can't fuckin' believe it. Someone stole the van.
All my tools. My goddamned Sawz-all. Everything."

I parted the living room drapes just slightly and looked out.
Sunday morning, early: a misty rain had fallen during the night.

"Did you park it somewhere else?" I asked him.
"Did you walk home from somewhere?"

He looked at me as if I were an idiot.

We stood there, Tom, Mark, and I,
mourners around the empty spot,
the van's shadow on the dirt,
a dry rectangle where no rain had fallen.

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