the old man
in overalls
who sold me
a bowie-knife
with a compass
in the handle
asked if i wanted to
make ten-dollars.

i stood
behind his van
with my shirt off.

he took
five or six
polaroids.

then he gave me
a twenty-dollar
bill.

our secret,
he said.

i was only eleven
but i knew
how to keep
a secret.

that night
after mom left for work
and dad
went to the bar
i rode my bicycle
to mcdonald's.

i slapped the twenty down
ordered six cheeseburgers
and sat in a booth
in the far corner
watching traffic
up and down
lincoln-way.

i took the knife
out of my backpack
unscrewed the handle
and put the change
in there.

i thought about dad
drinking himself
silly

and

mom working nights
so she wouldn't
have to be there
when he came home.

then i thought
about the
old man
in overalls.

i'd seen
into the back of his van
when he got the camera:

there was a
plastic milk gallon
half-full of piss.

a birdcage
with no bird in it.

it looked like
he slept back there.

he's probably
lonelier than me,
i thought to myself
which made me
feel better.
_____________________________________________________________________________

my first day as a temp at the ag leader factory
By Justin Hyde

luis told me
avoid that jig over there
cause two weeks back
he'd held a box cutter
to the supervisor's neck
but the owner
didn't have balls enough
to fire him.

it was just
a matter of time
till he broke off
and killed someone,
he said.

demarius
unloaded semi shipments
and stocked parts
in the warehouse

he had
a little work station
back there
where i was sent
my second day
to help him
take yearly inventory.

i held the clipboard
and pen
as he barked out
part numbers and
quantity.

the fifth day
he was way up
on the ladder
leaning awkwardly
to get an accurate count
on a box
of auger fuses

then he was groaning
like a wounded bear
and barely
clinging to the ladder.

i braced my hands
against his massive waist
and helped him down
to the concrete.

he said
he'd been a d tackle
at michigan state
ruptured a disk
it still popped out
every now and again
but he'd be straight
in a minute.

he wiped his sleeve
across his forehead
said i'd probably heard
what he did to the supervisor
but
he hadn't meant for it.

it was just
his mom
she'd started calling him
by his dead father's name
and two or
three times a week
she'd disappear
out of their apartment
in the middle of the night
only to be picked up
by the cops
walking aimlessly
down the center
of some road.

Justin Hyde lives in Iowa, where he works with criminals for a living. His first collection, down where the hummingbird goes to die, is available from the Guild of Outsider Writers, Zygote in My Coffee, and Amazon.