An obese man in a wheelchair sits alongside
a busy highway, prime real estate for refinery workers
hungry at shift’s end. As carcinogens billow behind him,
he hawks strips of dried venison from coolers in the
bed of his truck, mimicking pioneers like Kraft and
Oscar Mayer.

Who knows? This man, in time, could be driving around
our great land in a car shaped like a rabid Bambi,
an old Grand Marquis with antlers so tall, routes will be
planned around low bridges. Our grandkids may enjoy
convenient, squeezable bottles of Killer Deer Jerky
brand meat product in containers designed to fit
the cup holders of their electric cars.

For now, he sits under his canopy,
building his tarpaulin empire one Ziploc bag at a time.

He smiled.

She frowned.

He pushed.

She drowned.

The word syllable
itself contains too many
for such real estate.

Claws came out and we tore into each other’s

faults, rending self-worth from bone with hateful haste.

Our first fight may have been vicious,

but the make-up sex was animalistic.

Our bodies growled spiteful words

in wet whispers, rhythmic echoes

of the passionate indictments we had

just apologized for.

I’ll show you sorry, said

each thrust

each fresh bruise

each bead of sweat

each kiss.

Our muscles weren’t chiseled

as sharply as our tongues,

but they all were working

hard.

The bellow of her Buick 8

scattered egrets and redfish upon ignition

like soap dropped in a greasy skillet.

An ingenious amalgam of junk-yard scraps,

spare parts from the Gulfway machine shop–

she wasn’t pretty but, damn, could she sing!

Her wooden hull’s raucous vibrato

shattered the Sabine’s brackish mirror,

earning stares from spiteful fisherman ready to

blame the day’s small catch on Colleen.