and directions to a gold mine
flap and snap in the wind
like sheets on a clothesline.
westerlies on the ass end
about faced
post-eighties.
Don's Lincoln Town Car
got as far as
Sharyland then quit.
out of context into obscurity,
Don’s meteoric rise from blizzard jockey to
shift-leader was documented in the manager’s daily log.
Then that jerk-off showed him the gun.
Was a Saturday black hole,
post lunch/dusk,
dinner rush buzzing on the radar, but
just him and Javier at the moment
and the
minute this guy jingles in
Don thought, shit, this
is not going to be one of my normal transactions.
Nothing on the DQ menu was gonna satisfy this kid’s cravings
between him and the exit
Don clocked two white-hairs tongue-probing
dip cones.
The kid,
all twitchy
lifts his hoodie,
smooth belly,
with a side of semi-automatic.
orders a large Big Red and motions toward the register
Fuck the DQ man, let him have the money.
Fuck this punk too, though
tapping on the counter with the pants slung low
Don playing pin the
finger on the magic key,
mumbling the exact Castaneda incantation
that unleashed "Belt Buster"
the brutal,
conclusive
alter-ego
Don had been grooming since
Elm Street 3
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