Before killing the chipmunk with a spade,

I lay in my hammock trying to appreciate

how perfect everything might be

if only my brain could stop.

The chipmunk groveled in circles

with its neck twisted like a broken twig

as it tried to go back—with eyes popping—

to before my cat had maimed it.

The spade was in my garage.

My cat observed her victim in the grass.

The hammock was in the past.

In the present, this creature

between me and my patio

suffered as no creature ever should.

Across the street, the Garza’s dogwood

has popped, all snowy white, like confetti

bobbling but not falling

against its background of green and brown.

Mr. Garza couldn’t know

last winter when he startled me

trudging up my driveway

after taking out the trash

in the ice-pellet dark.

“Goddammit!”

“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!!!!!”

A mob of giant rats grappling?

No, Mr. Garza on his knees

fumbling bottles and cans as they clank

from a ripped garbage bag—

a gooey spill of kitchen sludge

punctuating a cacophony

of incongruously hissed curses

under that dogwood’s cold skeleton.

“…mutherfukkinsonofabitch…”

I had never, until then, heard

Mr. Garza say anything, not even hi.

But he’d wave back, and almost smile—

fat Mr. Garza, in his plaid, fur-lined

hunter’s cap and rubber galoshes

heaving out of his Hyundai

that he always backed into

his appliance cluttered garage

I guess to blast off all the faster

each morning before sunup

toward whatever hellhole

was his job.

Going commando meant wearing no underwear. We also called it going wedgie-proof. One time Mike shit his pants while we were on bikes on our way to steal Mad Magazines and candy from QuickPick. He took them off behind the Warren’s shrubs and then we hung them from their car antenna. They weren’t dripping shit but it was more than just a skid mark. More like a melted fudge bar. Mike wiped his butt with leaves then wiped it some more at a gas station over by Quick Pick. He stayed commando the whole day, all the way up until when we got back and went swimming in Ted's pool. It was almost dark by then because we’d played caroms plus a full game of Risk at the game center at Meadowood Park, plus horsed around on the monkey bars and stuff. At Ted’s, Missy, Ted’s little sister, smiled at me and later tried to dunk me. Ted’s mom made us PBJs and Fritos.

one day my dark cloud

will be gone once and for all

only to be replaced

by my new dark cloud

that old brown cloud

that really never left

and i will say

with what emotion

i don't know

or maybe this is it right now

hi again

It was that gnarly bearded dude

carrying all his shit

in a green garbage bag

and wearing a ratty old

coat I could smell

just by looking at it—

a winter coat in this heat—

that dude I’d have stopped for

even though he wasn’t thumbing

but was just like in a trance

on the shoulder

of Fall Creek Parkway

that got me thinking

what a great summer

because instead of sleeping

in my car, I’ve been sleeping

with my girlfriend,

who'd said that one night

if I got a job

she'd be my girlfriend

and maybe one day get hitched

because she was going

to nursing school,

and I could use

her Cavalier

that I’m driving now

with this greasy sack of Paco’s Tacos

for J.T. In apt. 7.

Her wrists, elbows, her cutoffs, ponytail. The warmth of the asphalt on her bare feet. I think the heat had got to me. She was so cute, so beautiful. I wanted to brush the pebbles and dust from her feet, kiss her, say "I love you," and get us to the nearest place to sleep. I put the car in Drive again and rolled up next to her. "C'mon, Laurie, get in the car. I'm sorry."

Again she stayed looking straight ahead but this time gave me the finger. I pulled onto the shoulder again and and let her get small in my headlights. This time I waited until I couldn't see her anymore. I turned off the car, got out and took in the stars and crickets and heat. The moon was a yellow pearl. So much beauty we could be enjoying together. Looking at the moon I also saw her wonderful butt and her tender thighs as she stepped over some small lump in the road.

If I were to zip by her, would she make it to the next off ramp? Who would pick her up? What then?

Back in the car, nothing but wind.

"I'm sorry I called you a whore."

"I'm sorry I called you a stupid bitch."

The side of her face. I touched my knuckles to it.

She was asleep and turned away when we pulled into the Motel 8. When I pulled the seat back she squeezed my wrist.

All they had, or so the lady said, was a double with two queen beds. I went up and pulled back the sheets before I carried her up. I slept in the other bed but in the morning I got in with her and we spooned and I held her and then there we were again, trying not to gross each other out with our foul mouths, filthy tongues, and sweat and grime.