He’s a catfish, eating blood bait
in the river after dark,
eyeing the long line reaching skyward,
the knot, the leader, the hook,
chewing a chunk off the side
before moving along.

He’s a blue jay. “Hey, get away! Get away! 
Get away!”  he shouts at the calico cat
from his nest in the red cedar tree. 
Then he calls out his buddies
who come to his aid, diving and bombing,
and scolding away, till the cat
goes to look for a sparrow.

He’s a gambler. He’s got the odds
on everything from basketball to soybeans. 
You can hear the trophies jingle
in the pockets of his pants. He’s got
the key. He can open the door. 
He can start up the motor. He can
get it to go.

He’s a drifter.  He leans on the bar,
eying a bottle of bourbon and a tall
cold frosty beer.  “Hey!” someone shouts
from a table directly behind him. 
“Hey, stranger!  You like to fuck?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly turning
    his hand on his gun.

Hear it:



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