Thursday, February 27, 2020

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Drunk Haze by George Gad Economou

swilling down bourbon till the very end of memories,  stumbling my way out of the barroom engirdled by fancy dinner-goers in a bar not for d...