Next door, he climbs under A jacked-up Chevy with a droplight.
His girl rags off The silver tools before passing them under.
Tire-scream and glasspack-rumble. The concerto in my room goes weak.
But when they quit It's a black quiet.
I lie down and my mind gets up In its sleep.
At my kitchen table He leans over a blank page --
Cut hands and cracked nails Rimmed with slim moons of dirt.
He is mocking Up a list of my
The click of well-seated valves, A good rock beat for the drags, A girl beside me, The beautiful poor white girl Who will litter me kids, Adjust the light, shadows for make-up.
Peter Makuck is Distinguished Professor Emeritus at East Carolina University. He is the author of Long Lens: New and Selected Poems and two collections of short stories, Breaking and Entering and Costly Habits. His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in the Georgia Review, Hudson Review, Poetry, Sewanee Review, the Nation, and Gettysburg Review.