The locked box contains
a pack of L&M cigarettes,
a gray steel lighter,
a frayed deck of cards,
a brown beer bottle
with a peeling label.
Twist of black pepper,
bottle of BBQ sauce,
cup of dark coffee,
handful of watermelon seed.
A faded green cap,
a black metal lunchbox,
a scattering of wrenches and screws.
Pork rinds in an unopened
cellophane bag, the key
to an old truck, the truck itself,
mud-flecked on the fenders,
the tailgate dropped, loaded
with lumber for the playhouse
he’ll frame in a weekend
with his brother Bill for help,
Uncle Bill, with his crooked
grin, his thin frame leaning
into the wood, the skeleton
playhouse that will stand
unfinished for months, then
gradually fill with lumber ends,
old tires, half-used cans of paint,
the truck in which he will bring home
the two piglets you name
Wonder Woman and Super Girl,
piglets that grow into sows
fenced at the back of the lot
across the alley, sows you watch
while Daddy tosses buckets of scraps
across the fence, the fence where
you perch on a hot August afternoon,
eating watermelons split against
the truck fender, sweet, sticky rivers
of juice pouring down your arms and chin,
and you eat every bite, down to the pink
against the rind, then pitch the rinds
to the snorting pigs, who crunch and mutter
as they feast.
The whole of that summer
is in the box, including the night
you all swam in the little above-ground pool
in the backyard, you, your sisters,
your father and mother, the night
he let you pile one after the other
on his back, then rose and fell across
the surface like a dolphin diving over
the ocean’s curve, while your mother
laughed in the darkness and you could
see only the outlines of their faces,
but you knew everyone was smiling.
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