Friday, May 16, 2008

poem

The Weed Sheriff

Mama, take this badge off of me and put my guns in the ground. There’s very little use out here for a sheriff, mama. There used to be the healing sanctum off the frontage road where uprooted vagabonds from across the river liked to showbiz their hats to one another. That’s a slang term, mama, for a lewd sex act. That’s all there is here—lewd sex and those great big burial brutes from antebellum America who’ve taken over the hills. That’s it. Not like up north in the royal sobriquet city where they’re constantly fishing them ladies with the rented perms from motel pools. Hell, my buddy on the force up there says it happens every weekend. Not like here where maybe once in awhile there’ll be vehicle accident on the interstate or a skirmish up in the hills. And usually that’s just the palsy-boys with the thinning hair dueling one another for their weightlifting equipment. No, mama, most mornings all I do is walk through all the rooms of my house making sure the windows are locked. Then I simply sit and wait for the phone to ring. But the phone never rings, mama. Unless of course the palsy-boys are back at it or the queers are out behind The Candescent Bar again. No, mama, I’m afraid all I do now is sit and wait. That’s why I’m dictating this letter to you. I’d call but I don’t want to tie up the line.

3 comments:

aimee said...

texas.

aimee said...

specifically, a ex-motor lodge turned bedbug-infested super 8 on the edge of an ex-interstate turned cowpath in texas.

they have HBO.

aimee said...
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