It’s like living next to a walking twelve pack of Budweiser

screaming “slow down!” at speeders going five under.

His shining Range Rover and gruff voice,

a noseful of his golden retrievers and rough paws on your chest,

undercut by the taste of the cigar he let me chew.

 

His home’s quiet exterior, an illusion.

Old Tim down on Flad Avenue,

a sober staple of the block.

His wife and the neighbor boy they raised

running races where last place wins

because he’d scream

“Ayyyeghwoouh!”

when he placed last.

 

The drunk cornerstone of the community,

letting the dogs walk him through midnight

and stopping cars with his mind.

Reading through that kid’s trashed homework

which he found in the paper dumpster,

a dumpster which said “Cén scéal?”

in its clanging language of metal and glass.

 

When the sun slips below the crenellated tower,

he will light his bonfire, crack open his brewskis

and ride his golden, canine mounts

into a tomorrow not of his making.