Mr. K
by David Stankiewicz
my mom just called to
tell me the old man
up the street who
menaced my childhood
with his temper and
sinister peculiarities (like
the time he dug a grave
in the middle of the night
on his 1/8thof an acre corner lot
for the mangy shepherd
who lunged snarling
against her chain
every single time
you walked by) died
in the ramshackle
haunted-house house
his kids refused to visit
and which the fire
department reported
was so glutted with stuff—
a lifetime’s detritus—
they could barely reach
the tiny basement cell
where Mr.K was
living next to a space heater
and where presumably
he burned alone
as he had lived
hell enough
for any man