the firewood man

in june
a flat bed
truck rolls
around, and a
man in a checkered
black and red
hat
runs from
door to door
asking anyone
if they need
firewood.
he's sweating
from the heat,
scratching
at the bee
stings on
his neck. he
talks in a strange
way, hiding
his mouth
with his hand.
he could be thirty
or sixty,
who knows.
you tell him
that you don't
have a fireplace,
and then say
that it's summer.
this doesn't
faze him
as he moves
to the next
house, pulling up
his pants,
as he gallops
away.