Squeaking Hinges

An old wooden gate on a gravel  dirt road.

The hinges are rusted and squeal with each wind gust.

The adolescent boys hatred is locked in his jaw. 

His mother is gone , can’t wipe the things he saw.

The road leads nowhere , unless you call it a house where he lives.

A passed out redneck chew stains on his shirt.

Daddy dearest the master of hurt , the boy wants him back in the dirt.

Snoring on his Barca Lounger , Pall Mall burnt down in his  mitt.

The words slur out when the apnea gives up. “Mable I’m sorry, why didn’t you quit ?”

“Anyone but Leroy .” then he goes back to snoring.

The gas line is cut and the fireplace is going.

Five hundred dollars and a ticket to the coast .

That creaky gate is the thing the boy misses the most.

The only honesty to which he’s ever been exposed.