Freezer Burn
The husband hunts down his biggest calamities; tiptoes upon them. A shotgun never whispers, he's quick to comment. Ties them to his car and heads back.
Parts will be jerky for his kids to chew on. Some his wife will stew or bake into pies he'll bellyache over.
But the bulk, he'll keep in freezers against the wall of his garage. Visit late at night with a bottle of Puerto Rican rum like a lantern—the moon out a window, he'll never notice, nibbling the dark from between the branches.
* Robert Scotellaro's work has appeared in numerous journals and chapbooks. Raised in Manhattan, he currently lives in California.