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Rodney DeCroo
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Oil Drum
We throw balled up sheets of newspaper,
dead twigs and branches into a rusted
oil drum. We light several matches and toss
them inside. The paper catches fire and soon
flames are crackling and our shadows
begin to loom and waver against the trees
and the river. We pass around stolen cans
of beer and pop the tabs and laugh as foam
spills over our hands and onto our sneakers.
My brother Chris asks if I like the taste of beer.
'Fuckin' right I do!' but the truth is I hate it.
Doesn't matter though because I've already
begun at thirteen to need it. We talk about
girls and lie about the things we've done
with them. I count each can and wonder
how many more I'll need for later that night
when we go to the Ches-A-Rena to roller
skate and watch the girls we've been lying
about. We talk about our friend Denny
sent away to Shuman Centre for burning
down the building where he lived
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with his mother and sister who drink
more than most men and fight almost as hard.
Once they attacked two girls twirling batons
in the middle of the July 4th parade because
the sister said they'd called her a whore
at school. Jeff jokes and says some big
mutant's probably nailing Denny's ass
as we speak, but it's not funny because
Lester's going to youth court next week
for stealing a handgun. He might be
sent away just like any one of us could
be the way things happen so fast. We're
all quiet as we stare down into the oil
drum at the flames that leap into the air
as if trying to fly back to the stars above us.
I look at the bowed heads of my friends. It's as
if we're praying or giving a moment's silence
for someone or something we've lost,
which is exactly what we're doing.
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