Sun sliced through the window
warming my face,
my skin tinted pink
by skinny morning clouds.
Mom was sleeping.
Harry was up.
His footsteps creaked
just above where I stood,
running water in the sink,
flushing the lead
that pooled overnight
in corroded kitchen pipes.
I made coffee
from yesterday’s grounds,
pouring the yellow-brown stream
into a cracked floral mug.
Grabbing a Hostess donut,
I went to sit
on the back stoop.
Sparrows chirped
inside a yew,
a few flitting out
toward the street.
I threw donut crumbs
on the sidewalk.
Sparrows hovered
and picked.
My boyfriend Mike
had said not to feed birds,
that they were dirty,
that they shit
all over our trailer steps,
that they carried disease
and lice.
“Besides,” he said.
“They get dependent.
Then you gotta feed them.
All the time.
Or they’ll die.”
A sparrow hopped toward me,
its feathers oily and smeared.
I tossed more crumbles
but the bird flew away,
the door swinging open,
slapping shut.
“Good morning.”
Harry stood behind me,
a set of patinaed dog tags
slung round his neck.
Curly hairs poked
from a sleeveless white tee.
“How about it?” he said.
“Breakfast of champions?”
He handed me a Busch
then sat next to me,
cradling a beer
in the crook of his elbow,
his forearm pressed
to his chest.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“You never seen
a stump before?”
Harry wiggled
his handless fleshy stub,
a forearm severed
near the elbow,
puckered at the tip
like a sausage.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he said.
“My hook.
I take it off
when I sleep.
And do other things.”
His eyebrow arched.
I asked if he needed help
with his beer.
“No ‘mam.”
He gripped the can
with his good hand
then yanked the pull tab
with his teeth.
“Cheers.”
Harry tipped the beer
and drained half the can.
Burping,
he said I could
get him a smoke,
motioning with his stub
to a pack of Pall Malls
in his flared plaid pants.
“Get yourself one,” he said.
I pulled out two cigarettes,
lighting them both
on one match.
He clamped down
on the unfiltered smoke
I stuck between his teeth,
the cigarette bobbing
as he spoke.
“Your Mom,” Harry said,
his hazel eyes sparking.
“Maybe she’s told you.
How I feel about her.”
I said nothing.
He set down his beer
and held the Pall Mall,
flicking an ash.
“I’m gonna tell you,” he said.
“You and I both know.
I can’t give her
what she needs.”
Harry drew deep on his cigarette.
An eagle tattoo pulsed
on his bicep.
He picked tobacco
from his tongue.
“Well.
Maybe you don’t.”
Looking past me,
Harry pointed his stump
at a gnarled woman
in an unbuttoned winter coat
and knit hat,
pushing a cart
mounded with blankets
and bulging black bags.
“Looky that.”
Harry jabbed me
with his stump.
“There’s someone
who knows how to survive
in this frickin’ world.”
