Move Slow

In the places
I have lived
lives, nine
times ninety,
the places and
the lives
numbers that
shame felines,

(The things
that I have done.
the same feelings,

shame.)

in these places
things move
slow.

Slow as steam
from a gut-pile
left hunter fresh
on November
mornings
in Arkansas woods.

Slow as crows
feast, for thanksgiving
until no evidence
remains.

At nineteen,
up North with
an uncle,
days spent
breaking back
and mopping
hot tar
I learned this
most valuable
lesson of all

in a bar called
Lost Acres
outside of Chicago,
on the Joliett side.

I met a guy
named Lucky
he had white hair,
a quick grin
and a small fleet
of trucks.
He rode a
Knucklehead Harley,
was clever,
and smooth with
ladies. He was
everything
I had always
pretended to be.

Lucky moved slow.

He took me
to Kings Shoeshines,
hooked me up
with dark ladies
whose tits
had cost more
than my car,
he drove me to
Cicero and showed
me where
to cop dope.

The first bag
on him.

The lesson
didn't stick though
until he asked
a pistol favor,
my debt weighing
heavy in hand.

In moments
like these
things move slow,
because you
don't just ask
a guy
to kill someone
all at once.