I’m in there somewhere,
beneath the yellow original
the avocado green cover up
the red of one wild summer,

beneath the white
and the white and the white
layers it took to cover the brown
paint peeling off the old

metal chair on my great-grandparent’s
front porch at the family reunion –
the one that burns from the sun
and leaves diamonds and flecks on my legs,

each layer peeled back by humidity
and time and the prying
of little fingers
until the next one shows through.