BUCK. By Jerry McGinley

He looks like his name would be Buck,

big and barrel-chested, his belly bulging

over a gold steer-head belt buckle,

boots long, pointed, and curled at the toe.

He wishes he came from somewhere south

like Kickass, Arkansas or Mule Breath, Texas.

He claims guys that eat bagels are fairies,

and the only woman could satisfy him

ain’t been made yet.  Brags that he’s 

the mean sombitch that lit Ol’ Satan’s

tail on fire.  Claims he’s stockpiling ammo

for deer huntin’ in Heaven.  Drives

a red Dodge Ram truck with Camels 

on the dash and a bumper sticker

says: Insured by Smith and Wesson.

Sign on his front door says: If this lock

don’t work, my Glock nine will.

When the bars close and the juke box dies,

he heads home, howling at the moon,

like the tattoo of the wolf on his shoulder.

Says in bold red letters, Lonely but Free!

Jerry McGinley is a poet and crime-fiction writer. He lives in Wisconsin.