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.