he stared at the branches knotted skyward
like his father's raised fist. the lawn was
trashed again, another night tallied by beer
cans, and inside he heard
his mother in the kitchen, methodically
opening and closing
drawers. he dangled from the first branch
and held his legs to his chest, then kicked up
to a higher stoop, up and up,
his perch over the quiet street.
he watched the sun sink
below the evening's quicksand.
he could stay here unnoticed, webbed
in leaves and dark, his loneliness
like a cloak.
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