the boy next door

the father, who looked like a man who was perpetually
about to go hunting, bearded and tattooed,
did what he could for the boy. building a tree house
in the wedge of pines along the yard.
the trampoline tethered and staked
so as not to move, the above ground pool,
three feet deep, up to the boy's chin,
the blue plastic crimped and full, always
having the near appearance of bursting.
he did what he could for the boy
before leaving in his truck with a cross
bow or a slew of fishing rods and coolers.
the boy seemed neither grateful or ungrateful
for his father's efforts, swimming quietly
alone or bouncing, his fiery blue eyes unblinking,
on the black tight pond of the trampoline.
from the window, you could see him staring
at you, steady in his pogo bounce, his arms
stuck to his side like a toy soldier,
occasionally doing a flip to amuse not
him, but you, perhaps. so when cats and dogs
began to go missing in the neighborhood
he was not a suspect at first, but in time,
the small mounds of dirt and tied crosses
that laid in rows along the chicken wire fence,
that separated you from him, made people wonder.