Glass trinkets on fold out tables
refelct sun.
A few from his wife’s curio.
Sometimes he finds himself
able to remove a piece or two,
feels her eyes still watching him,
like the cooper’s hawk 
that circles the chicken yard.
He keeps meaning to shoot that thing.

Sun-tanned women more broken
than they let on
circle the tables.
Flip flopped, tank topped, pink toenailed.
Betsy would say dressed too young
for their age.

“How much for this beveled glass?” one asks.
He thinks, but can’t remember
how much was give for it.
“What you got on the fiestaware?” another asks, 
before he can answer the first.

It’s hard to see them walk off
with her pretties.
She’d get him, because he knows he let
those women get away with a steal.
But, he can’t stand sitting at the house.

It’s quiet.
One can only watch Gunsmoke
so many times.
The new guy on Price is Right
looks out of place.
No Bob Barker.

He rearranges the pieces 
on the table to fill in the holes.
Maybe next Saturday he’ll bring
a few of the rifles from his cabinet.
Sits down in Betsy’s lawnchair
to finish his chicken buiscuit
from the Kwik Mart.
Coffee’s done cooled off,
even with this blazing sun.
Wasn’t any count no way.