and let the woods
grow into it?
was that the angry work
that mangled up his leg?
or did my mother drive
it to the back
and leave it there
before she bolted off
and died?
nah that’s too sad
I almost laugh
at the crybaby story
I’m making in my mind
like a song by Rusty Gold
My mama left
When I was born,
She died without a fuss.
Now all I have
To call my own
Is her old camper bus.
right
the camper
the camper is the thing
the camper
the 1967 V-dub camper
It Was Cold Among the Trees
when I walked around
the hunk of dead metal
to see what was what
one headlight smashed apart
its eye-cup cupping rusty
water in its bowl
the other gone an empty socket
windshield covered over with a tarp
front bumper
twisted in the leaves
a dent deep up the nose
like a tree fell on it
tires gone wheels flaky brown
the whole thing up on blocks
without any tires
but otherwise
intact
I sniffed in at
the side door crack
at the moldering guts
a dozen years of rot
had left inside
then slid my fingers
in and wrenched
the side doors open
the damp
of how many
thousand days
and nights
had made
a home inside
the bus
for all of nature
a sea of crushed
and gutted acorns
the remains of
a million meals
the bathroom
for whatever
ate them
was there too
a mound
of poop the size
of walnuts
from I don’t
know what kind
of furry animal
I shooed a pair
of mourning doves
out of the ceiling space
(mourning what?
no mother being here?)
and when I did
found little silver stars
of no real constellation
painted up there
the gone front windshield
was replaced inside by plastic sheets
taped hard in place
and good enough to stay
the rear window was
rusted shut
but that was some security
the curtains were
knotted and rotten
and the wood that made
the table and bed
was a kind of
slimy pressboard
gone bad in the rain
it folded like paper
so I tore it out
and dragged it to the heap
after a tough three hours
and the downing of the sun
I had nicked knuckles
scraped wrists and arms
plus an empty
shell of a camper van
that needed to be scoured clean
a worn-down broom
proved to be best
its bristles short and hard
I used it to brush
and scrape
the cobwebs from
the inside walls
then sweep
the dust straight out
which some of it
blew back on me
idiot
that I am I didn’t think
to wrap a towel
on my face until
an hour into it
who knows what kind of
acid poison was already
eating my tea bag lungs
the doors were uneven
and wouldn’t close
because of a deep dent
which no hammering
could undent
but I dragged a length
of wire from the heap
and made a loop
to loop around one door
and tied it to the other
and wound it tight
into a knot
so the doors nearly closed
then padlocked them
and knotted some wire
outside so I could use
the lock there too
it was decent enough
to keep the lions
and tigers and bears out
while I was in there
and everyone else out
when I wasn’t
by flashlight
I razor-scraped the scum
off the side windows
and buffed them
with spritzer and the towel
from my face
then laid a plastic tarp
on the floor and duct-taped
it to the walls
as high as it could go
and hoisted down
my box spring
and a slew of pillows
from my room
and found a lamp
in the yard
and ran a cord
of cords out from the house
to plug it in
and there was light
then I had to tumble
the big trash heap over
to get at the coffee table
that was under it
which I needed for
a kind of nightstand
I took a leg for it from
a backless kitchen chair
and washed it all and sanded it
by hand
and set the table next
to the pillow end
of the bed
I was building
I was building
I realized when
I was nearly done
I was building
a fallout shelter
the opposite
of the open woods
a six-walled closed-up
space for me
and just for
me
lying there
and looking up
at the ceiling stars
I felt a tingle
of something far away
and gone
and realized that no
single part of me
did not hurt
or slightly bleed
I was spent
of nearly
everything
and only realized then
that I’d been
out there
all night long
so long
in fact it must
be near
morning
I looked up
through the ceiling
of branches
at the still-black sky
and wondered what
time it was
when
just as I breathed in
I heard them
Church Bells
Prime hour
first hour of daylight
dawn
new morning
sunrise
day
(Father Percy talked
about the hour-bells
and called the first
one Prime—
which always rings at six
no matter
the time of year)
I stood there
tightening myself
fast and quiet while
the morning
daytime sunrise
bell rang
and rang
except
6 a.m.
in October
is still dark
still
night
black as
the inside
of a closed
and buried
coffin
(or a six-walled
metal room without
the lamp turned on)
one second all you are is silent
and the night
breathes low
like it’s asleep
and dark
is like
a voice that could
but doesn’t speak
(the best kind)
then
thunder
shakes the air
wide open
with an iron
hammer
clang
and
clong
quivering the wood
from one end
to the other
and quiet flies away
I stood there
leaning on the camper doors
the handle sideways in
my shoulder blade
and watched
for the light
to flutter down to ground
watched and watched
for morning
a new day
yes
except that no light came
what came was
something else
What the Hell Are You Doing?
my father from the house
What are you doing out there?
his voice a mad scribble
like a black crayon
in a two-year-old’s
wrong hand
over the soft
humming
of the last bell
It’s six a.m. You nuts?
I’m cleaning up like
you told me to
Who told you?
you said
get rid
of all this junk
you said I had to
No I didn’t.
And I sure didn’t tell you
To mess with that camper.
Get in here.
I latched the camper doors
and padlocked them
to keep him out
so he wouldn’t pry to see
what I was making
what I had made in there
but he’d already
gone back inside
the jerk didn’t remember
his big or else
so now I have black lung
and bloody fingers
and animal poop poison
eating my veins
but at least my own
new room
my own new room
at last
He Was at the Table
again already where
he usually is
his bad leg jutting
straight out from the
chair and table legs
I can’t walk. It’s bad today.
I looked at him
his head waggled
on his neck
uh-huh
I need you to pick up a package.
He’s waiting for you.
this early?
he said nothing
you mean, Mike?
No, come on. It’s Ray.
It’s Ray on Saturdays.
then Jimmy gave me a five
If he calls to tell me
You didn’t show . . .
You understand?
I’ve done it before
If you steal my money,
You won’t even know
How fast your head will spin.
You understand?
got it
And get right back.
I’m timing you.
I took the five
and climbed the valley
to the road
twenty minutes street to street
to find his friend waiting
inside his open garage
as if he
sold weapons not beer
he said nothing
just took the five
and gave me a paper bag
heavy with a six-pack
while his wife or someone
in a bathrobe
stared gray-faced
from the front window
I Passed the Church
on the long way home
(I wanted Jimmy’s beer
to be as warm as possible)
Father Percy
was outside
the arched red door
(no, Father, this
