if they were the stories of my adoptive father I have no way of telling.
he told them and forgot.

two brothers I remember in one had built, separately, time machines.  
their sister, though, had been done for a week.
she lost them to anger.

my real father noted the repeated references to god and rolled his good eye.

god, he said, is the mark of a first work.

I had spent years changing them, hoping my brothers
would visit.