by Kevin Crush
His ring was bright against his purpled hand,
His swaying gentle in the pollen haze
Inside that old tobacco barn, and
He wore a burlap sack to hide his face.
We looked around for where he hid his car –
Nothing. He must have walked three miles or more.
He must have cared to hide himself this far
Out here. His toes just grazed the dirt-packed floor.
The flies had swarmed his crotch and mask and chest.
His bloat was tempered by the shaded barn.
I called the cops. They took care of the rest.
He did his best to hide up all his harm.
At night I sometimes see his wedding band
And take some care to not quite understand.