All summer snowmobiles slumber under tarps;
garages choke on motorcycle parts,
old couches and loneliness so deep
it comes around to marry ecstasy.
In winter boys wait on the bridge
to throw snowballs so hard
one driver skids to a stop
and dangles the one he can catch
by the ankles over the dark creek.
In spring slow trucks spray for mosquitoes.
Broken glass gathers in gullies where
snails congregate in Pepsi bottles.
Trees crowd curves in roads.
Safe enough to ride your banana-seat bike
to the drugstore where the girl at the counter
doesn’t understand when men ask for “prophylactics.”
Boys catch housecats and skin their tails alive;
housewives overdose the day after Halloween.