Papa says,
he works in a different world
where hot rays beat on backs
pressing those in the chain closer to atonement

Hands like iron
serpentine around ankles
tight
tighter
until sun-faded uniforms
gag up remnants of adolescent dreams

Papa says,
he works for a phantom fault
flimsy as memory

The sun melts
behind a barren field
and he folds his flesh into thin sheets,
over the corns and calluses—
blisters itching to burst like berries

Papa says,
the Keeper watches them
gnaw at marrow
desperate to fill bellies
swollen with silent screams

The metallic melody
bleeds black
reminding him of the infantile wails
he missed
the checks that bounced
his almost-life

Papa says,
the lady is blind
but a silver dollar will open an eye

You dig hands
through scratchy fabric
sift through lint like soil
furiously searching pockets
that have only seen pennies

You ask,
over the quiet static
afraid the dial-tone will suddenly
click
why he lives in such an alien place,
where there are no green monsters
with white saucer eyes

Papa says,
there are often no monsters at all
it’s the sin of the flesh
wringing out the remainder of youth
reflecting back a muddy image

Papa says,
he works in a different world
where the Keeper
steals shadows off men’s backs—
the leftovers

You tug
a cotton blanket
over your head,
covering eyes like your father,
afraid the Keeper
living under the bed will grab hold
and pull you under
too.