Fallout (Crank 3)

Too bad, so sad. Nowhere else close

to send me, I ended up back with my dad,

at least for now. I can’t stand it here.

I mean, at least foster homes are required

to maintain a certain level of cleanliness.

Not like Dad’s deteriorating single-wide

on a dirt road near a dairy farm at the far

edge of town. Everything here is layered

in tobacco smoke and cow shit dust

and carries a lingering scent of human

piss because neither Dad nor his latest lay,

Kortni, knows how to use a toilet brush.

My first instinct upon arrival was to pick

up the litter on the floor, toss the food,

molding in the fridge. Then it struck me.

Why do any of that? If I do, they’ll expect it,

maybe think God returned me from foster

care to become their designated housekeeper.

I hope I’m not here long enough for the trash

to gross me out completely. Bad enough

I have to lay my head on the same old pillow

I used when Zoe still lived here with us.

It was clean then. Everything was—Zoe

reigned as scrub queen. Something to do

with the little bugs she imagined everywhere,

including under her skin. Meth addicts

pick those nonexistent bugs into sores.

Pretty sure Dad doesn’t do meth anymore.

You can’t eat like he does or wear such

a big belly while dancing with the monster.