poem of the day 01.20.15

peckerwood

there was already a line

to the back of the liquor store when he came in

the only black face in the entire place

we were somewhere in the upper middle

drunk from an afternoon in the grassroots tavern

but wanting more to kill the night

the wine store kept the smaller bottles of alcohol

behind the counter at the register

it was the store’s way

of teaching drunkards the value of patience

or to stop them from being so damned cheap

he found me right away

my wife claims that i have that kind of face

it’s welcoming and the antithesis to the fiber of my very being

he said, hey man, you know how it is

then started motioning up toward the register

of course i knew how it was

but something about him rubbed me

it was rare that i found a face in this world as welcoming as mine

most people were ugly without even trying

i said, i know how it is, man

that’s why i’m standing here with all of the other stiffs

i said, getting in front of me won’t help your cause any

he said, look, man

so i said, why don’t you go and ask each

and every person standing behind me

if they’re cool with you cutting then i’ll clear you a space

well, he just stood there with kind of a crooked grin

i wondered about the type of person

who found his face a soothing salve to come home to at night

he said, what if i just cut you in line

a man must do as he must, i answered

then he leaned in

he reeked of vodka as i reeked of beer

we were brethren of a sort

i thought to myself that i should’ve let him cut me

but then he called me a peckerwood

ain’t nothin’ but a peckerwood, he said

hear that honey, i said to my wife

now i’m the victim of racial intolerance

he went to the front of the line

cutting each and every one of us

the cashier sold him a pint of rum without hesitation

the hoi polloi held their bottles and gasped

their conceptions of law and order thrown to the dogs

someone called him an asshole

as he waved to the crowd on the way out

the woman behind me

threatened to get the manager

everyone else just stood there

checking their phones

a pack of peckerwoods

waiting on anarchy

waiting their turn in line.

ALSO: I have a poem up over at Revolution John