That upstairs window has a woman in it,
or a dress form. That door is falling off
because a deer walked right up the porch
steps and knocked. I don’t know much
about the town of Beason, except what
I’m not saying, but I know enough to bite
the hand that feeds me this mango, its
hard pit knocking against my teeth
a modified Morse code for love.
It’s possible he’ll leave me here
in Beason at this little lake
when I turn to drop my empty cup
in the rusty can; he’ll run off
in his car, abandon me to the geese.
If he does, I can walk determined
up the road to the nearest mailbox
and right on up the porch steps
to knock, wild-eyed and alive.
