We heard the bloodhounds in the
distance. The report over the radio
said the convict escaped from
the county jail, where he was being
held for three murders committed upstate.
And was hiding somewhere
in the thirteen acres of cornfields
a few blocks behind
our house. My grandfather loaded
his single shot .22 and went through
the house locking doors and
windows. He told me to get my
Daisy pump-action BB gun and sit
by the only open window by the
back door. As he started to walk
through the house again with
his .22, we spotted my father staggering
up the back steps, drunk again. My grandfather
leaned his head down, smiled and spit tobacco juice
out the window then whispered to me,
"Shoot a couple BB's at his ball sack, just for
the hell of it."
spitting blood
into the fog
along the Chicago
river, under
the Michigan
Avenue bridge
four in the morning
one cold dark
night
two fingers on
my left hand
broken
all my
knuckles bleeding,
drinking a half
pint of
Jim Beam
straight down
staggering &
looking up
through the fog
at the
lopsided
man in the moon
a tug boat
down river
toots twice
as I
make it up
the steps
to the
boulevard
& head over
to an
all night dive
on Clark street
for more
of the
same
Doug Draime's latest book is More Than The Alley, released in 2012 by Interior Noise Press. He lives in the foothills of the Cascade mountains.
del.icio.us
