Wolf
Wolf can’t walk so he sends me
to the liquor store for Sisco
and two loose cigarettes.
Babe, he yells after me
make sure it’s the pink one,
orange doesn’t give a good buzz.
I look up and the sun is flashing,
the pavement grain aglitter.
Earlier, he lifted the cushion
of his chair to show me a gun
wrapped in shoeshine rags.
Just in case—he said, pointing the gun
toward the cawing field across the street.
Weeks had passed since the fire
but the birds still circled, searching
for something to land on.
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