The porchlight isn't even on
when I come home, ready to fight.
My wife has it coming, or has been,
all over some weasely cracker from down
the street with his NAPA hat backwards,
who changed her oil last week. She payed
with a wink and told him I work at the wire
plant, that I hit the third shift next week.
Junior's door cracks. His fat fingers clutch
the molding, don't move 'til I walk past
and tell him to go the hell to sleep.
I remember the sound of trains
running when I was asleep and Mama's
goiter while a man is not kneeling for whores
she combed her hair before the bathroom
vanity. Her throat was pregnant and
I wondered who the daddy could be.
And Milk and eggs and Tampax
and all the messy stuff that is female she keeps
locked away in boxes, while this NAPA hat
does rings around the bedpost, recursive.
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