Out back in the garage,
wrenches, tire irons, and brake pads were tossed
by Gene’s greasy hands.
A Marlboro sat in his lips,
oil on the filter like an exhausted engine.

His wife Irene, idled in the
four-bedroom house.
Her hands trembled trying to light a joint.
Her florid, egg-shaped face
sniffled as the cherry lit.
Smoke blew above.
Tears puddled.

Their teenage daughter partied
in the passenger seat of
painted muscle cars,
and their baby daughter’s
hands and knees raced on the
Brazilian Cherry speedway.
Her smile was the only one in the house.

Gene held a planet by the stem.
The gas storm erupted in his lungs.
Black moons filled his eyes.

The interstellar driveway piled with rusted metal.
The chilled 4 a.m. gust moved leaves.
Domestic calicos chased them.

They were like Gene, who chased any opportunity
to stay out back.

Clay Hunt is a poet from Modesto, California. He has works published in “Penumbra,” “The Dark Sire,” and “Songs of the San Joaquin.”Instagram @claytanic89