you step outside
into the august afternoon
in your sky blue button-up
and your khaki pants.
your greatest fear
is your black sedan
simmering in the summer sun.
you curse the birds
as they soar from
branch to branch
and fill the sticky
air with their song.
all you think of is
white stains on
your windshield.
you watch the news
in your living room
while your wife
reads plath in bed
and thinks about how
a house is a collection
of panic rooms and
escape hatches.
in your house,
everything becomes a weapon
when you see a fly:
books, pillows, hands.
dinner is always forks
clinking on plates,
murmurs from the
turned-down tv,
speaking without words.
you have come to like
the sour taste of tortilla chips
fried in bad oil.
on saturday evenings,
you and your friends
carve up filet mignon
(always medium-rare),
drink expensive scotch,
and talk about college
football. it's the only
time you laugh.
your daughter cries
in bed every night
because she knows
how you look at her
when you think
she's not aware:
the freak, corrupted
by dungeons and dragons
or black sabbath
or whatever the rats
are into these days,
the prodigal son
who will come home
one of these nights
and weep and beg
forgiveness for her
sin. you imagine
yourself assuring
that you are just
happy to have your
son back as you
bring her in for
a holy feast.
you never complain
when it's overcast.
you always say that
it brings out the
deeper greens.
someday, she will
wake up in a house
she can understand.