John’s got me holding
the basketball.
I pass it over, one bounce.
His mother’s head out the door
Hamburger Helper on her face,
like, “You boys all right?”
John’s hard, he holds
the basketball in front
of his boner. His blind dad
farts on wicker, drinks
can beers
out the open fridge
in the open garage.
Says, “You sweeties
gonna shoot ever,
or what?”
John lost a ball
to a dog attack
in Grade Four, the left,
but still has the right.
The left hangs
that way. When I jerk him off
sometimes it’s pink from blood.
He always says not to check
his underpants.
His mother plates Helper
says, “You’re hungry,”
then, under her breath,
“little slut,” moves
to feed the dad. John eyes
my gym shorts, the precum dot
at my tip. I mouth, “this cheese
tastes like you,” and stab
his thigh under the table
with my fork.
Beaver West is a writer from Waterbury, CT.
Angel Rust 