You Don't Know What's Inside, Part 2

Billy, Billy, Billy
was what the mommies said
when I got off the bus,
got off the bus
to the house
far, far off the highway,

we lived in a
new house,
rustic,
stuck in
Connecticut,
surrounded by
tree-covered hills
on a street called
Davis Hill Road,
Right off of
Steep Hill Road

five years,
five years later
Billy, Billy, Billy
came back
when I wasn’t there to defend the castle,
showed up
middle of the day,
slicker,
wide lapels,
gold chains,

slacks,

in form,
fists of cocaine
on the glass top table
I broke my arm on
last year,
the one that sits
under the tree
in the yard
where my mother lives now,

I got off the bus,
there were five or six cars,
one parked on the lawn,
I snuck in the underused front door,
all the housewives
huddling, jockeying,
smoked,
smothered
the tall bald man
getting
ruined,
some of them
ruined,
surrendered,

mom and Uncle Billy
caught me hiding
under homework,
caught me hiding
under video games,

cut the wood,
make the drinks,
watch the children

and right off the train from the City
the husbands
are jamming pixie dust off their briefcases
while Billy slided them
all back to our house,

all red eyes,
all red eyes,
all
on the glass top table,

I got outside,
I got away,
managed a
slow simple way
down the snowy back steps,

took a breath,
I was
straight edge,
I got an axe,
grabbed logs and started to chop,
loving
the sound of the snow,
loving the sound answer
of simple work,
enjoying the math:
one chop=two logs;
two chops=four logs,
getting into a rhythm
shedding
parka,
sweatshirt,
down to a t-shirt
I was The Clash of cutting wood
lashing my efforts to the dream
of being that good
and
one swing back
and Billy was next to me
the devil’s circus
screaming into the dark
behind our heads.