Splitting slugs
with a spatula
in the driveway.
Sprinkling salt
to watch the slime dry up
and those fat, quivering grape-bodies
wither.

Saving the head
of a snowman
in the freezer
so we could take it out on 4th of July
and smash it on the pavement.

Climbing a mountain
of dirt that seemed ten stories high
when the septic tank broke
and they tore up the back yard to replace it.
All the bodies
they found
were moved to the cemetery.

I think sometimes the ghosts must have choked
on our childhood,
so sick
of laughter and games
they sabotaged the tank
and left us haunted
by yard reek.

Sometimes I think
an echelon of troubles arose
from that house and followed me
down every driveway since.
I blame all my bad luck
on that one winter
with the salt curse
and the septic tank
and all that rot
in the yard.