Stripped, Searched on Her Front Porch

for Hayden

Stripped, searched by shot gun, after being locked out of my house:
First the shirt son, hand it through the door.

Her daddy wadding it up like an empty box of shells,
tossing it back into my face, as my bare chest absorbs
the fall cold mist: Don’t wancha chatchen cold.

Stripped, searched by shot gun, on her front porch:
Now undo the belt, let the drawers drop
right where you stand; step out slowly and kick
them to the door.

The cold fall air riding up my boxers; any ideas have left
my head for the warmth of britches. He shakes everything from the pockets:
my keys, my change, a few loose bills, and a condom; he smiles,
throws the britches over his shoulder like a sack of grain,
opens the door wide: Come on in, son; don't
forget your keys and the little change you have.

Stripped, searched by shot gun, after locking my self out:
The wife will bring you jogging bottoms, two wool blankets,
with a pillow; the cot in my room is yours. Don’t let the dog
bite you when you enter the room.

Stripped, searched by shot gun, on her front porch.