salt tree, draft 2

tony-boy sits
under a salt tree
growing a crust.

he molts three times a day.

a bowl full of mousebones sits in his lap.

he mumbles a skull song
while sifting his fingers
through the white skittles.

he would prefer to be living his vision
of accountancy and fuel-efficient cars.
he would like a marriage and a stable
full of tony-boys to love and smash full
of his dreams,

but he’s stuck with a salt treehouse
and a magic bean.

one at a time he takes out the worms
he’s been asked to keep safe
and stretches them until they break.

he strokes his way toward an absinthe horizon.

he pretends he is a doctor.
he demands a lawyer who can defend the rights of chiggers.
he thinks an Indian chief would starve if
subjected to an entire forest of salt trees
dropping salt leaves on the ground
even though the deer who flock to feast upon and suck them
are too swollen to escape a hunter —

much like tony-boy,
sobbing under his salt tree,
growing another crust as
the scabs from the last one fall
in a squall of bad white luck.