Miles away
I find a broken toy
grinning on the road—
a hard plastic devil-head
hanging sadly
on elastic string.
In an apple orchard
I fall asleep with it,
dreaming it speaks
in the kind but fearsome voice
of my parents’ landlord.
The only stories it knows
are dirty jokes
about my family,
at which I laugh
out of politeness.
Rain wakes me
and I start home,
swinging the head
in wide, blurring circles.
The warm sky clears
and the road dries.
Rain drips out
from the devil’s neck—
rain that tastes
like apple juice.
