On the Back Page
                                                     Patrick Lawrence O'Keeffe

                 

                                                             Yesterday’s Register spread out 

                                                             under fresh tray of cat litter 

                                                             turns up news on the back page.

                                                            Dwight Rawlins.  Survived by wife Lucile.

                                                            Two children.  Three grandchildren. 

                                                            All in Sandusky.  A half-sister in Tulsa.

                                                            Dwight Rawlins.  Last seen

                                                            through a man-door square of glass

                                                            as we made sure he left the premises.

                                                            Sat a while in his car—door ajar--

                                                            on the edge of a worn vinyl seat

                                                            legs hanging out as if steel-toe shoes

                                                            were somehow stuck to the asphalt space 

                                                            he’d parked on for thirty-seven years.

                                                            “We should call the cops--

                                                            what if he’s got a real gun?”

                                                            While crooning a Johnny Cash hit suddenly

                                                            he’d pulled a twenty-two caliber pistol

                                                            from his pants—a starter’s gun--

                                                            emptied all its blanks into the air.

                                                            Humanity scattered.  Scurried for cover behind

                                                            machinery and a stack of wooden pallets.

                                                            “It was only a joke,” he exclaimed

                                                            arms out—workman hands pleading.

                                                            Tears flooded the crags of old cheeks

                                                            and turned tired blue eyes

                                                            enlarged through safety lenses

                                                            into running sores.

                                                            That day we never did call the cops.

                                                            Dwight never did come back in and kill us all.

                                                            He finally just folded his legs up

                                                            closed the car door and drove home.

                                                            Dwight Rawlins.
    
                                                            He no longer sees

                                                            with magnified blue eyes.

                                                            Those workman hands no longer work.

                                                            Toothy mouth no longer sings

                                                            those old Johnny Cash songs.

                                                            In his place empty space rings

                                                            with silence.