Buried My Face in the Neck of These Fools

In the twilight, out in the hot that refuses to cool, I spin the kid by his bony shoulders underneath the sappy pine. Slowly. Deliberately. One. Two. Now wait until I back away, okay? Three! He moves the piñata stick around, it’s cheap crepe paper colors flapping off now, streaks of purple and yellow and pink torn up by the first round of swings. No one…