After Sunday

I.

My new neighbors are from rural Indiana. Their
license plates tell me so.

They’re always having weird,
construction-type men over;

single mothers,

six
crying
children getting knocked over by
a Chow-mix,
wrapped up in
the apple tree.


II.

On President’s Day, one of the older kids living
in the house,
say 14 or so,
decided to walk into a small,
white shed;

the kind for skinning fish.

He closed the door and begins to
urinate on the tiny window,
framed between
the door and nature.

As the window remained cracked,
his urine drifted North. Implicating

Catholic priests
that reek of
scandal and comfort through

discomfortingly times.

No more laughter from children.
Just the lonesome cries as
dreams die.