Carmen 48

My woman and I had to move a fish tank,

a real big bastard that held around 150 gallons.

I didn’t really want to do it so I was drinking before she woke

on a Sunday. I ran out of beer, but that doesn’t matter so much

north of the Mason-Dixon line, so I walked four blocks

to the convenience store with death metal

playing in my headphones.

I bought a lot of beer and didn’t flirt with the cashier

and started walking home. Two blocks down I looked to the left

and there were all these toys on the lawn,

strewn like they’d been thrown from a doorway.

Every one of them made noise. There was a fake conga drum,

a push-button guitar with the batteries removed,

a xylophone with keys in rainbow colors and broken mallets,

and some others. I could almost make a band,

but Sunday isn’t garbage day.

I got stuck there holding my beer, curious

until I remembered how many times I’d bought beer walking down this road

and heard a man yelling at someone inside.

I put the beer down and piled the toys together delicately,

as if I was afraid of making a scratch.

The xylophone and drum and what the fuck ever

stood there in a solemn tripod.

I hope it made the kid feel better.

Maybe it would have made me feel better,

if someone had done a thing like that for me.

Hell if I know, I didn’t have toys like that.

I got home and pushed the door in.

One of the dogs was laying on the kitchen floor

atop a heap of refuse: old aquarium filters, ruined shoes,

clothes that smelled like dirt and piss and dogshit.

She was smiling.

I have a lot to learn from her.