“Hurry, get Frank! She’s waving a pistol on some lady’s porch!”
“Where is he?”
“Just find him!’
“Honey, what’s wrong? Put the gun down and tell me?”
“Your son beat my boy and took his twenty dollars. I want it back.”
“Here, take my twenty dollars. I just want to squash this.”
“NO, I want his!”
“He’s not here.”
She starts wailing and swinging the gun around the lady’s front porch.
“Sounds like someone’s shooting off some fireworks,” she smiles.
“You’re an ex Marine?”
“There’s no such thing as an EX Marine! How old are you?”
“My son is 21. I’ll tell the truth to save the devil. We were the first to go in, last to get out. I’m trained, fine, for death. I’m invincible, but a teardrop can kill me. You don’t know. You’re just a baby. How old are you?’
“My son is 21.”
men love funny women.
to really know a man
pull the one liners back
to reveal what he is healing.
and, trust your tears.
poison sumac or an oak tree
pokes through the grey grate.
roots in pink and grey ( not golden)
tickets and discarded
pop bottle labels.
anticipation to win big
in long-lost shots, licking wounds
she looks down for literature.
i live across the street from a “house on a hill.”
daffodil debris drowns greener grass, and
lilac litters their side.
bottle-shaped brown bags beautify and
unlucky lotto tickets line our block parties.
the tracks are invisible and affect the weather.
there’s no fault line for miles.
there are hasty for sale signs on both sides.