WHAT DO I THINK
OF, SILENTLY
You know how damp salt cakes in the shaker,
the way things clog and stick together? Yes,
surely so you do. Don't answer. Out here in the
quite damp backlands, I'm standing near the barn.
Thirty years ago and more, this pasture was all
cows, and a bull, kept separate, with big horns.
I remember it well, and often just stared it down.
Some sort of weird, country sport - like running
down raccoons with a daddy's car, or shooting at
groundhogs from the back of a truck. That was
Rick Gustin all over. Couldn't keep his finger
off a trigger, whether it was a rifle or a girl. But,
either way, his best catch was that cashier at
the Super-Duper in Troy - a little market
where she worked. She really was a beauty,
I admit, but he was out of line; dumb shit.
-
After Vietnam he came home aimless; became
a local cop - little muscly twit with an attitude
and a gun. Talked like he was King, had his way
with everyone : 'tongue-lashing or brain-bashing,'
as he used to put it, 'pull this car over now.' He'd
stop girls out along Route 6 for some supposed
infraction, just to see their tits. I swear to God
this was true, back in 1972.
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