The Shack off the Highway

not mosquito season, not wet,
the storms split, most
disappearing near Sanford, yet here
he was, self-caged in wood,
the decrepit out building from some
lost, burned or melted farm,
no vestiges of animal life
except him and the tiny
black mosquitoes, torturing him till
blood flowed and stained his skin.

no one knew his side, no one felt
pain when his wife was seduced, and
there was no reason for Katie
to die but his own miscalculations (not that
he had hoped for reconciliation—no).

revenge’s sweetness eluded him yet, living
off refuse from the food store,
discovering joy in lettuce leaves
and scorched chickens, left
too long on store’s barbecue, and
sometimes cherry pie, broken, busted,
but sweet, not too many ants
there in the dumpster.

and he was an animal, hearing football cheers at night
coming from the high school,
him listening
to car stereos whiz by,
wondering
if he should just quit,
give himself up,
do his time
for Katie, poor Katie.