A short gravel driveway, the tatty wooden fence
that stumbled—this way, that way—
like the strides of a drunkard
from the highway to the makeshift carport
where me and daddy strung a gray tarp
from a sagging oak
to the far side of our trailer.
No, not to stop the rain —for the acorns,
little brown rivets that could punch through
a windshield like a fist through the living room
drywall, mama screaming
You promised, not
in front of the boy.