So what? I tried. So what. Retained the use of my hands,
a Scandinavian appreciation for the well-executed
blindside, and the rest came back gradually. I haven’t
learned a thing. Like the man who thought a drive would do
him good; the row had been dreadful. Instead of sticking
to the straightaway he turned left and fell in love
with a barmaid at the Keno parlour in Morinville.
Or the one, down seven bills to a Tompkins VLT,
who slunk out to get the gun, returned, and with a muttered
stand aside, sighting clean on the display, shot
the fiend to shit. Who sank into a chair, then, double-barrel
on his lap, and waited out the cops as his cronies
gathered round the wreck trailing their own criminal
pasts, hissing Way to go, Stan. Way to go.
(Source: Wikipedia)
• Poetry • Karen Solie • link •
