Four.
"They are not jubilant today, the limbo babies.
They are in a funk, yawning, and itching, and mumbling.
They may be fluish or allergic to the olive trees.
We are drawing bottles, taking measurements with a pencil.
We are doing our math in a notebook
and writing paragraphs about ancient Egypt.
After a while, we will walk home,
and our father will shout at us.
Nothing makes much sense.
The ketchup is uncapped, as is the scotch.
And two times whatever is suddenly wrong,
as we suspected.
In ancient Egypt, tombs were dark, and airless, and perfect.
We are always holding our breath.
The moon spins in its socket.
We drench our eyes in the useless air,
but our tears still taste like salt."