claw machine

i don't think i have what it takes
to replace the "i"s in my poems
with "we"s. who would want me,
speaking for a generation? i think
i should try more often than i do.
afterall, there has never been a poem
i wrote which my father's tongue
was not inside of. my brother too
& sometimes the dirt people
whose bones mix like spilled utensils drawers.
we go to the claw machines, my brother
& i. we go with our mom & do
a waiting ritual together. we say,
"one more" until we are empty-handed
in a new way. the poem had fish lungs.
the poem had a way out. the claw machine
reached in from the ceiling of the bathroom
& plucked me out in a great "almost."
if i were to write a real poem about endings,
i would talk about the arcade by the beach.
how each year there are more claw machines
& less puzzles. in the corner, we play
pinball. my mother teaches us that
if the machine "pops" it means you beat
the high score. i beat the high score
& jump when i hear the "pop" thinking
it is a champagne bottle or a gun shot.
noon runs her fingers through our hair.
each of us with waves of deep brown.
i have been growing my hair out. really, i 
should say, "we have been growing our hair out."
we get worse as we go. farther & farther
from a plush handful. the boardwalk 
tells a story about witnessing. the ocean
is always a "we." we crush. we crash.
we pull back & leave fragments
in the sand. we go back to the machines again.
we lose together. tiny chapels. a strong wind.