Crown

The porch was narrow, screened-in, dark.I slid my toe up and down the edge of an old mower bladeleaning before me on the half wall,

watched moonlight filtered through the mosstouch my car, the gravel drivewaysloping down to the street, the driveway opposite ours—

the house it served burned downand no one thought to clean it up.Calm square of ash with stone front steps that climbed to a porch of air.

It was from there he emerged—tall and lanky,hunched as if a string were tied between his big toe and his neck—and slinked up the drive.

Behind the porch screen's denser blacknessI was invisible. I kept still.He jimmied the lock on my old sedan

and the overhead light awoke and madethe windshield bright and flatlike a billboard.

He climbed inside.It was my neighbor's grandson.I'd only seen him once before, at the butcher's,

his skin was bloodless and cool, his eyes were mostly veins.From the car came a strange racoonish soundI wanted to go on and on and on.

There was determination in it.But then he uncoiled out of the car and shut the door and I could seehe'd found my Crown Royal bag full of change

and because I'd been drinkingI kicked over the mower blade.He turned, stared right at me.

Tilted his head like you do before a big painting.A sadness moved between us,like when you look at an old dog.

I tilted my head with hisand he shivered as if in the middle of a piss,then turned and walked back into the night.

The tree frogs went quiet.I could hear the heave of my father's ventilatorcalling from the bedroom window.