Got busted in ’67,
A baggie of weed she bought off the paperboy
Fell to the floormat from the glovebox
Of her Plymouth Satellite
As she fumbled for registration.
A baggie of weed she bought off the paperboy
Fell to the floormat from the glovebox
Of her Plymouth Satellite
As she fumbled for registration.
She knew how to work a room, danced
Until last call, and shot pool like a pro.
She was the one relative
To spend summer weekends with.
No nursing home could hold her captive.
Her last escape found her at a tavern two blocks away.
They found her in the glow of the neon,
A pool cue in one hand, a vodka 7 in the other,
The same smile she wore in that long ago mugshot.
Troy Schoultz is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. His poems, stories, and reviews have appeared in Seattle Review, Rattle, Slipstream, Chiron Review, Word Riot, Fish Drum, The Great American Poetry Show, Steel Toe Review, Midwestern Gothic and many others since 1997. His interests and influences include rock and roll, vinyl LPs, found objects, the paranormal, abandoned places, folklore, old cemeteries and the number five. He is the author of two full length collections and two chapbooks.
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Hahaha! I hope this poem is true and not made up. Sort of.
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