Light steps sound from the basement stairs.
A case of home brewed liquor in his father’s hands.
Bizarre, cancerous bulges from cap to bottom.
Plastic explosives from corrosive neglect from stow-away rooms
in white neighborhoods.

His father with a bronze idea, all of them with a destructive mind
A twenty-two saloon rifle bottled up too,
like a maniac gone off his reds and blues,
ready to fire out
with remorseless recoil.

High octane, high explosive, high art.
Cartridge clicks into the chamber.
Son like father, his aim is true.

Like twelve year olds with cherry bombs
we blast a hole right through.

******* boom! Rancid swill rain
staining the biting bright snow