Halfway Down to Drawing Water

Absent leaves, trees allow
sound to carry, and a crack of his heart
can be heard houses away.
As if bottled in a parka,
transfixed by visible breath,
he wears his large hands on his face
bent over like a pump handle
half-way down to drawing water,
cursing his partner in decibels
as if she were part-deaf,
though she’s been dead for a week.
He stands on the porch weeping,
boot toeing the final step,
then yells to no one in particular,
calling her a thief,
one who had stolen his laughter.