I had this friend named Otter.
Had a cold shower every morning.
Pictures of Pat Sajak lined his walls
like wall paper.
His mother had past away three years prior.
She left Otter three things:
A stuffed Fox to be placed above the fireplace,
thirty-eight years of guilt and
a house with a fireplace.
“I loved her like divorce,” Otter said,
“It’s scary being alone,
but I’ve never felt better about leaving that cold bitch behind.”
Three nights ago Otter locked the door and walked down the street to the gas station.
He shot the clerk, took fifty dollars out of the drawer and stole a car from the parking lot.
The clerk’s wife howled a final aria to her husband and I’m pretty sure the sirens matched key.
Blue and white lit the parking lot where broken glass and tire skids marked Otter’s get away.
Three homeless men stood under the street light, baying like orangutans.
Otter made it three miles when the cops caught up to him.
Three bullets in the chest silenced his guilt and he screamed his last words:
”Ma should of named me Pat. I’d been a much better son.”
I had nearly forgotten that our dear departed Darren stopped by the booth on opening weekend to crank out this Johnny Cash song in prose poem form. I have no idea who commissioned this or what their level of amusement was upon receiving it. I like it the more I read it, and not just because it may be the last thing Darren wrote in Orlando before his departure for the wilds of Eugene, Oregon.
Will's Pub stalwarts may remember Darren as the de facto soundman for Speakeasy. More recent poets may remember him for his work with Feedbag Films or for being a smartass.