I sit at the supper table
dressed as a zebra
until my father shoots me.
I look down: fish on a plate stunned
by flame and butter, stuck in spicy dust.
A mysterious cricket-language goes on,
glad and satisfactory. But what if I cannot
An angry boy hides in the weeds, then emerges with a plastic sack
in his hands. The 18-wheeler moves slowly, enormously along
the rough road, like the years to come with nothing clean or sweet or warm.
If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,