procuring season

by Barton Smock

winter
hates
me.  the wheels
on my car.  my just
father, my just
paroled

father.  who I don't
pick up.  instead

      the guy
with a swollen
thumb, one shoe, and possible

treasure
opens the passenger
      door, crosses

his arms      like an X

and starts talking.  my family plays jokes

on me

they are
jokes

I deserve.  I am hungry.

I am not sure about my wheels or
this
journey      but once

he takes the tape
from his foot
and wraps

each tire

      I am sure
      I am not

that bad of a man.

*

seems father is always
let out

when mother      is as cold as she can be.

when the new house
has been

      possessed.  last time we moved

she put all the tires in the attic, said

something about the torch of family
and
about

pre-empting

déjà vu.

*

fists
in the trunk
roll around
like canvassed
fighters      cars
on ice
coming

to a halt.  I let him out
as he shut up
      quite
a ways
back.  there's not much here.  wires.  a sense
of everyone
talking.  arrangements
to meet      you know
      after the snow.  I put my left
hand
on the wheel
scrape the rear view
with the file
in my right      pretend

I am cutting
the base
      of the pole

            he has begun to climb.