WHERE UNDERSTANDING FAILS
The man on the asphalt beneath the sheriff’s yellow sheet
was a friend, reliable mechanic, and tattooed local Good Guy.
His friend Weasel, in tight Levi’s and scuffed cowboy boots
spouted his hatred for the blacks, faggots, Yankees and sumbitches
the Good Guy somehow forgave. “He never saw it coming,”
his wife cried through meth mouth, Weasel’s other parting gift.
Weasel carried a loaded .357 in his 300ZX, made ‘shine’
in his trailer and sold it in plastic soda bottles.
“If you hear anything, call us,” said the Detectives, who –
ten shots later, spoke to Weasel where Good Guys failed.