The rubber bands, the burnished coins collected conservatively, a refrigerator with nothing: the night falls on this. To say her pules carried from the back porch is unjust. She wailed. She bellowed deep from her morrows. We all made a pack and howled because of what remained in that truck: the splattered ruby that left me real and raw, as raw as the demise of his face complimenting stagnant air with flies. We killed all other details with pitchforks and foraged for what was left in aftermath's footprints: burnished coins in the bedroom, some rubberbands limp on the floor and his white refrigerator, always hungry.