Playing House

I am a hollow man. I’ve eaten years to forget you by the kitchen sink soaking our son’s diaper in the water. Seizures are a lot like living in your mouth. “Baby, there's this baby I lit on fire once as a kid,” I said. You stared out the window at our son playing with a matchbook. He stands in the yard tossing flames into the air, watches them descend then flicker out. You turn to me,“Troy, He’s got to learn what it feels like to burn for something. He’ll never be a man if you keep trying to save him.” Folding my carpenter’s apron, I thought only of shapes. The shapes your mouth makes saying, “I could tell you were taken with our last nights’ waitress; calling her foxy cotton tale names.” Her name was Stephanie. And she liked stuffing things; a cup filled couple of bras, napkin holders. Then you plunged harder into the soapy mess, your hands raw and steamed. Ketchupsaltsugarsweetn'lowtabascosaucejamsfieryhottmildsalsa. I could tell you I’ve written my life’s fuck-ups on her thighs. I could tell you I've called her all sorts of fiery names full of seizures, sugar substitutes, and babies. But waited for eaten years to eat up the hollowness of the words chewing my mouth. You move to the table and eat dirty salad with a spoon. “The difference between dirt and mud all depends on water,” you said. I know dirt. I am careful to smooth out the wrinkles on the kitchen table. I said, “My childhood was filled with mud pies.” You look at your water glass, trace the rim with your finger.