The first seemed like a straight shooter,
with his intelligent demeanor,
but the details he shared about the day’s news
made you wonder if these were tall tales.
The second was a simple talker,
serial discloser, smart and stupid
because it was all a game,
an outlaw whose risks were few
because he’s harmless.
I forget his name.
The third was a complicater of the simple,
pathological pain in the ass,
wimp so aggressive
he’ll hide from you to haggle,
pretend there’s a boss behind a door
and not just him behind a bush
to gain ten dollars,
or who knows, maybe a long hustle.
Honestly dishonest because he
never met a rule he could keep.
Better of short odds.
Pioneer of the lost cause
of flight from humanity,
which, of course, abides within.
To know him is to walk the borderline
of tickle and itch
where it’s crossed by Route 66,
down by Robert Johnson’s fishing hole–
out in the stix.
“All the engines in the world,”
he says. “We smog them.”
My last words are: “Thank you.”
His: “No problem.”