Hunting
You see it in a picture, stand on your head,
imagine how the walls might meet at that angle
though it’s obviously impossible. Impossible,
too, that someone deliberately chose that color
for the wall, somehow both green and orange,
so strangely furred, and didn’t think to make
the bed or tuck the litter box away. But you can’t see
the dozens of beer bottles smashed in the back yard,
the sound of bigrigs on that hilly corner braking,
the weird smell of that weird plant someone homed
in the garden’s many weeds, or the way
the neighbor’s deck puts him at crotch level
to your kitchen window, so you’re doing dishes
and hoping he only has clean, clean thoughts.