Rural

Just as the wind died down,
blowing the last sun-stained
clouds out of sight,
we dribbled the dimpled
ball across the loose gravel
playing a game of p-i-g
pig. 

You elbowed my side,
knocked me to the rocks
and scuffed my knees
and forearms.
Never a word passed your lips
as I wiped my arms on 
your old sweaty shirt
I wore loosely over my 
dirty cut-offs.

I aimed the dusty ball at your face
and missed by a mile
it rolled into the 
weeping field next door,
littered with
beer cans and rusted-out cars.
I hoped you would dig for 
that old ball for hours,
hoped you'd skin yourself
up and get lock-jaw, maybe.

I turned before you
could hit me again and
rain into the crackerbox house
to pour alcohol on the 
gritty spots that bled.

Holding my breath
as it strung its way into
a pink swirl in the bathtub,
knowing mother was a sleep
in the cool dark bedroom
and knowing you'd take the truck
-I could here it rattle away-
to buy more beer to
throw away can by empty can
into the tall grass
to maybe grow yourself
a way out.