What is He Feeding in That Shed?

What’s he feeding in that shed?
I see him walk,
I hear him talk to somethiiinnnggg
within the walls of that damn near shed.
Always wearing thick lenses that man,
drives a TV yellow moving van,
sounds like the thing could blow any minute.
He posts a sign that says “no flyers”
on his door; without the thanks.
His mailbox vomits statements of his banks
attempt to take the money he don’t got.
What’s he feeeeeeeding in that shed?
Hiding in the corner of his yard,
I peer out my window wondering
what could be in there thundering
every time he comes and goes
from that god forsaken ugly shed.
He has no children, friends or foe,
no one that I have seen to come and go
from the house with bed skirts used as drapes.
So what is he feeding in that shed?
Covered in curly dock weeds;
the wood cuuuurrrrves inside like a squeeeezebox
sucking in just about to bust its lock.
I’ve seen a light beneath the entrance door
to that shed like mosquitoes getting zapped.
Flickering for a time, snickering
until a shadow waltzes past
the space beneath that entrance door.
What is he feeeeeeeeeeding in that shed?
5 am he leaves and goes somewhere
taking that black duffle bag elsewhere;
I assume to fill with the hush-hush
he feeds to the somethiiiinnngggg
that is in that god damn shed.
He returns on early evenings time,
I hear that van a stuttering
and that shed begins a muttering
for whatever it takes a day to find.
That man parks that rusted van.
Thin as a blade he walks through the gate
that leads to that somethiiinngg that awaits
whatever is in that god, stuffed to the tits, bag.
What is he feeding in that shed?
What is that song he always huuuummms
every time he leaves that shed
a bag, less than what he had
and a toothless grin smeared in chapped lips.
I think I may just know.