Hero
Paul swept me off my feet
when, at fifty-four, twice my age,
he pursued me with the ardor of a hunter
going after big game deep in the jungle.
Thirty-three years later, married,
we have a little homestead out in the county.
This kid in his twenties comes around,
Tells Paul our well needs to be checked.
Paul just looks at the kid like he’s crazy.
”Nothing’s wrong with our well,” he says.
Then the kid jumps him, pulls him to the ground,
wraps his arm around Paul’s neck, starts choking.
Paul takes a big bite
out of the kid’s arm, draws blood,
and that’s when I run outside,
slug the little shit in the side of his head.
The kid takes off, howling.
Of course, we call the cops,
but I doubt much will come of that.
Still, Paul’s always going to be my hero.
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