Mark Smith

Saksvig strums his ukulele
with his trotter thumb.
His radio reports a touchdown
made with Yaeger’s plunge.
His salty fingertips scrape
the bottom of the tin
potato chips were in.

His mother stands across
the road one-armed against
the mail box in search of
fliers and dutiful replies
from female family and friends.

Pumpkins bulge like barrels
in his father’s fields, some
large enough for starter homes.

Again Saksvig with his suitcase
college bound. On the last bus
to leave Raccoon he dreams
the local brewery explodes like
fireworks above the sand dunes. 

Dreams his impatient father
chops out the orange door
and windows with an axe.

Dreams his chilled mother
with a flashlight twists off
her green tomatoes
and drops them in a sack.