My father said he could not dance
to the city girl he’d just met.
Buckshot, he explained,
buckshot in my butt:
cowpoking in the 40s,
drinking too much
cheap whiskey,
getting into fights
with the boys in town.

I take after him.
Same crooked smile,
big hands, skinny legs.
Love whiskey,
and stories spun with sass
and half truths.
I, too, have metal in my butt.

But how will I explain it?
No one will believe buckshot,
if they ever did.