The can is wrapped;
twine covering
its bottom half.
Sand fills it to the brim.
A spout sticks
out its center.
The basin crackles,
the contents
of a crucible
nova bright
at its heart.
On the hissing hot bricks,
sweat sizzles with each drip
from a scrawny arm.
-----------------------
Oven mitt hands,
wield grill tongs,
to pull black slag from the top
and draw out the brew.
He pours the can a drink
of ancient liquor,
smooth and burning
as it goes down.
On a wooden beam he sits
covering chalk too old to read.
He watches the sun wake
over trees covered
in the slightest
sheen of green.
The mold parts,
unveiling
a swirling silver glint in misted air.
Jaysin gives a cockeyed grin
and lifts it out.
"It's her birthday tomorrow.
You think she'll like it?"
