He fears the sun, lawn sprinklers,
and my evening practice swings.
(But not my cat.)
Quiet as the haze on his back,
he draws the darkness to his chin
like a super-hero’s cape.
(This super-hero tips my trash!)
Will his wife find him at dawn–
drunk from tainted runoff
and bloated by discarded yams–
forgive him missing supper,
push him home to mind the kids?