Worthy Evans

W o r t h y   E v a n s

Southern

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Let the voice cry throughout the neighborhood,

Supper.      Looking out toward an orange-purple

Sky     I can detect shadowy squeals riding bikes,

throwing footballs, feigning close movements,

keeping      the proper distance. The hum stirs up

from underneath the linoleum at my feet. Shutters

rattle.       Somewhere in this house a woman walks

like she’s going out a door. I hear the shoe clacks

onto hard wood laid atop a cement slab. The hum

shudders the windows, reverberates and shakes

the thin brass handles on the dresser drawers. A Dart

pulls off the street and parks next door. Uncle Lloyd

rolls up the sunroof and gets out. He’s holding his briefcase

and car keys, walking up the stairs as the freight train

fades away,      the footballs drop,      the bicycles

move up the hill.