by Seth Copeland
Coughing through Buckdancer’s Choice,
unable to sustain any life through Dickey’s pseudocontent,
I walk the grounds, Big Friendly summer like
so many grimed hands, hades
in Minoa, all heavy & cursed.
Everything on these three blocks leans a way.
The children always claiming the pool are either
latchkey or feral, speak mostly in high round vowels.
I meet one stray swimmer on the
sidewalk, shows me three small wicker baskets
says: “I’m helping my mom move. Do you know what
these are?’ Something that can’t hold anything.
Somebody clanking under his truck shouts Puta madre,
keeps clanking. The air smells of Raid.
Dusky moon waxes gibbous, a little boy
peeking in at his mating parents.
I dread tonight, squirrels skittering in
the bedroom ceiling, the pipes trying to throat-sing.