I.
December in the Delaware Valley
and the boy daydreams
of joyrides, limp crab apples
chucked from car windows.
His legs are trembling!

II.
—He sleeps in a township beyond
commonplace, beyond get-outta-here.
The boy can bend his elbows
into his arms.

III.
And then there’s this one part
when wet thuds on late-model
hoods dent youthful ligaments.
The boy’s chased down by a wrinkled drunk,
whiskey breathclouds over his face.

IIIa.
I forgot to tell you the following―
the dead ringer aspect
of the boy and drunk,
their curvatures, the snow,
his arms bent in the snow.