The blued barrels of the shotguns stuck out over the hood of the station wagon, pointing away from the men who were smoking, the smoke rising in the breeze, drifting into the corn field. The corn stalks rustled in the breeze.
All I saw my mother drink
for years. In the diner, served
with a striped straw and shredded
paper beanie or sometimes
at Stop & Shop just before checkout,
its perfect plastic body pulled from
the squat fridge that sits underneath
the conveyor belt—but most often
sipped from a silver can on the porch.
The first thing I notice about him
is the expression on his face baring
his sobriety is a bubble one can pop
with a blow.
I’ll stay awake, stay up all night,
Keep wide my eyes and cocked my ears;
I’ll keep the whole damn room within my sight,
The phone in my left hand, a gun in my right
“If you don’t believe in something, you’ll fall for anything.”
—Falsely attributed to Alexander Hamilton
