In the fresh minted city, at the late hour—our choices were baffling. We faced a full complement of man-dogs on the streets who died howling without real names.  They suspected all old, broom wielding women. Nona Sue called young Guglielmo Guglielmi in for supper with a blunderbuss.  The Danimal slept in a ball in front of Hanni’s place, where the Muslims saw a brick fly through the front plate glass.  Bob came out proud with a shillelagh from Threads to brain the brutes. Alas no coward stood tall to perform such an act with a showdown.  A car whizzed down Bardstown.  Danimal grunt-swatted a mosquito, relieved himself. A squat between patrol cars. His frozen corpse at five months. A bench and plaque, we dedicated. Every ghost and civilian he knew buried him.

            The light glances cold
            Kentucky lotto is spent
            we’ve turned predator

He sat there.  We knew it.  The bench melted snow at 20 below. Bob arrived at Threads early to settle accounts, preparing a conch of palo santo, sage, copal, myrrh, and frankincense to fill the biting air.  It was his song.  A concert from ’71 in Oregon.  Hello Dan, you can go home.  Dan replied, “I am. Thank you for noticing.”  I see you, replied the bald-topped long-haired shopkeep, staring over top his spectacles with a twinkle. Go on home now, your mother’s calling you.

            Witch hazel blossom
            spidery, ambling the blooms
            make family at once