Huffing
M Ross Henry
A way in or a way out, his hand
on the one-gallon can
its red paint
cut clear through by a white
lightning bolt with tooth-sharp edges
its surface tinged
with his fathers fingerprints.
The can says keep out of reach
of children, but hes barely
seventeen and that leather jacket,
a pack of reds,
his hair grown longer than his sisters.
A way in or a way up, he loosens
the smooth plastic cap,
breathes vapors like oxygen,
only slower.
The sky doesnt get you high,
at least not like this. Hes flying,
no feeling in either foot.
Soon hell glide
over the wooden fence
he helped his father build
and be done with this place.
A way in or a way down,
he fumbles to close the cap,
slip the can onto a low shelf.
His mind is a vapor that pulses.
Now hes as quiet as the broken lawn mower,
as corroded and nearly as idle.
For a few heavy seconds,
the world waits
to be rolled back out, a clean
bright-green AstroTurf
on which the game of manhood can be played.
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