he rides it fast, not thinking
but sometimes thinking too much
about stupid things: the cost of babies, babies, and babies
obviously not caring about the squirrel bite that
manifested itself into eight shots
straight to the stomach, swallowed with a reprimand from the Chicago Zoo
not that the expensive babies were ever bit
they were hid in the potties when the bats came
left in the arms of Mad Tom’s Outhouse Patrol
which they’d come to love from CDs that hadn’t existed when they were born
even though the concept burned the sepia tones of nostalgia
in people they had grown to superficially know
from the effects of power outages and roasted salamanders
that built bonds; just not strong bonds
because they broke when hair became tye-dyed and nobody cared if he swallowed a ghost
but he never brings up how not breathing preserves the soul
he’s concerned about the market
it’s “volatile”
ready to break; to crash; to burn; to change
which makes it imperative to bury the telephone wires
under the driveway
so the trees can be seen; the ones that were cut down for the sun
but, dad, what happens when the sun goes down?