YOUR TURN

A ruined Chevy, the windshield

gone, the seats dragged out

into the weeds, the guts trailing

off into the orchard, if seven trees

make an orchard. On the porch looms

the proud white refrigerator

never paid for. Where are the kids,

all blond, all dirty, all barefoot?

Hiding in the weeds? These kids

are too full of juice to hide that long.

They could be crawling under

the house where the dirt reeks

of fish bait or in the silo playing

kiss your uncle or upstairs

lounging in papa’s golf clothes

like real people. You won’t

find them in the blurred photos

of class reunions, you won’t

see them posed on the calendar

that hangs behind the barber

as he whisks talcum on your neck,

snaps the sheet clean of curls,

and cries out in a voice heard

only in hell, “Who’s next?”