There was a field trip my school took to the city
when I was maybe eleven.

We watched a play I only remember as strange,
people wearing nylon, stretching it into glowing globes.
Bright colors.
I kept wondering if they were naked inside them,
because it didn’t seem possible
that so many layers of nylon
could be worn at once.

The area was known by locals
for unusual art shows.

Afterward, we walked to the park for lunch.
I sat with my best friend.
We ate our packed lunches,
cheese sandwiches with mayonnaise.

I watched my younger brother,
in a lower grade,
running and jumping over people
lying on their backs in the grass.

He yelled out the count as he hopped.
He was on three
by the time I noticed.

A teacher appeared and told us to hurry.
We were leaving.
She was upset.

It turned out my brother had been hopping
over sleeping homeless people,
as much a part of the park’s ecology
as the trees, the benches,
the brass men.

Of course he was.

No one had told us anything
about the people sleeping there.

Later, when he was asked about it,
he said he just thought it was funny
that so many people had fallen asleep
in the same place,
like it was a nap park.

He couldn’t make sense of it,
even after we were told the truth.

Many things in life are like that.