On Reading Alexie.

There are, many, is.
There is sweat and blood and tears and
a hole full of a lot of other things, full
and pregnant secrets buried under earth.

I play basketball and go to the bar
and grow a basketball belly.
I eat nothing of consequence
but bread and canned meat
words of people
that huddle close together then scatter,
fly away,
come back to sit on the porch
and want my help.

But we and things are dry.
Hair strands blow away
at a finger touch.
Twigs snap and
grass is only green
right by the river
that barely moves itself.

I have to try to wake it up;
is it sleeping?
If I poke it with a stick it might become a snake
or a turtle in a shell
that would live if I went to the pet store
and got it crickets.

Instead the swing set squeaked its
hinged and rusted and iron-tasting
in the air,
slow bounce of playground balls carried
on the cracked out easterly winds.
The river dried up around late August and I cried.