We buy Cheetos and Fanta with the money we stole. Took it as they cried, pried it loose with kicks to stomach and stomps to the face. Fingers grow orange from the powder of our breakfast and stomachs pop out between ribs and belt buckles as the soda slides down. And Whooser laughs, cheese staining his teeth, his breath coming heavy through busted lips. I laugh also, lips stinging from salt, from blood, from smiles as we eat. This is what we are given, the children of the ghetto, this is what we inherit, a breakfast of chips, skin pocked with dirt and scabs, backs resting loosely against graffitied alleys as we laugh at fights, at money stolen, at the blood that drips loosely down my left arm and puddles.