Summer Storm

I get the feeling

the neighborhood kids

are turning against me.

Tonight, thunder

to the north

over Lake Erie.

All signs seem ominous,

a flash of lightning,

death of sunflowers.

There are arguments,

a disconnect, an

over-saturation.

These rain barrels

overflow in a downpour,

puddle on our lawn.

I sent the kids home

an hour ago sensing a

fistfight, a summer storm.

He doesn't give a shit about that.

I saw Tim walking down 

East Broad Street shirt open 

in swim trunks smoking a cigarette.

It was 88 degrees in the shade.

I nodded a hello, and he said

It's hot as f#€%. with a maniac smile.

Over the top of his shades

he was eyeballing backyards

for pools to hop, puffing smoke.

The rec pool's too crowded

and the only thing that makes a swim

better than a hot day

is an over the sunburned shoulder

fear of getting caught, even though he says

he doesn't give a shit about that.

I looked back as he turned

through a side yard to a stockade fence

at a house with an empty driveway.

Ice Cream Party

On several occasions

my wife has given my son

and the neighborhood children

ice cream with various toppings -

sprinkles, candies, whipped cream.

We gave a stray cat tuna once.

He meowed, "I love you,"

(I swear it), and never left.

Every week he brought us gifts -

dead birds, squirrels, rabbits.

There are many kids around here.

They love ice cream like a cat

loves birds and tuna.  My wife has

become their unquestioned leader.

They will kill on her behalf.