Outside Detroit
Jay Surdukowski

Vacation picture, framed in bark:
spiked hair, shorts, you are so little
in front of the world’s largest goose
made of tin, its brass honk carries
across Canada like a gale.
Even your bed is small like high school.
The thick hole in your door’s still there,
stepdad’s punch, fat like a crater.
His Confederate flag’s tacked up
hidden in the shed, a prized skin
drying out, pulling at the nails.
Across the charred doublewide lot
your ex-girlfriend’s ranch-style house.
Now when your thighs feel your cool bed
you remember that she’s with him:
tall Canadian cab driver
sipping Maker’s Mark, ginger ale,
jackknifed hard on a saggy couch.
A truck and broken Volkswagen
sit for sale in your gravel yard.
They are hunched inward with prayer.
Geese tick over like a slow clock.

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