You’re gonna strike the match—
You’re gonna strike it—
Flame the bank up into pods
of fire, be
And someone said, Gasoline.
Someone said, We have to change the images
inside their heads, said
And motor oil, he bought at a mini-mart.
And the cat said Don’t
even though it was dead
and the squirrel said Don’t
and the little dog missing an eye and a leg
even though they were dead, said
but you did it anyway.
And someone said, That boy is sick—
And someone said, It was kind of pretty
when you didn’t know what it was from the road.
Hours now, by the trashed banks, counting
Brown for beer. Green
for the fizzy water, clear
for anything and
tail lights smashed, cars mucked like
trapped in tar, who
ate the flesh right off their legs, if they were
they could hurry home, they could float
killed cat dead at the end of your stick, who could
shot in the head—
Like in the shows where the cop
cleans up his town,
then the ambulance comes for the drowned.
You felt bad, so you did it.
You thought it was pretty, so you
did it again.
You felt charged and buoyant
as you picked your way home
to the blue-lit fatherless den—
So you did it again.
The BB’ed mutt, leg smashed, home-bum toasting you
with his beer as you
to the sludgy bank, the match, the gas, the
pile of tires someone had dumped, were you
dumped? you had asked
after another one left, and she had
You were an ambulance, you could see she had drowned—
Like in the shows where the warrior
collects his dead and
brings them to the shore,
to burn them
in their body-boats, release
And the parents said,
Didn’t he have a house key around his neck,
didn’t he have a pager, an electrical tether
to a list of chores and a stocked refrigerator—
And the teachers said Yes, but what
were the images inside his head, they
see it and they make it
And you put it in a tire, your
you set it on fire and it kept afloat
as it sailed down the river—
to the heaven of not being