When It’s Just Dark

Sheets of hot tin roof go “waeahwaehhhweeaahhh,” a shimmering saw. Fleet-footed. A piece of cake pulled from the one cooling in the windah. Crumblings onto the unlit grass shards. Running through backyards in just the 1950s just a boy with a slingshot in yer pocket sayin’ “gee whiz” the neck snaps back, trachea bent into a dent by a cotton cord not always strung with clothes usually but not always. His birthright chances scatter like cat-eyes, surround where his spine lies. Their glassy flecks currying God-given favors, oven lives, clotheslines, boy oh boy cake freaks.