A man who intervenes in a domestic violence meets a real man

Want to See a Real Man?

I read today how a man barricaded himself in a trailer
with his girlfriend, and before he blew her away
and himself too, he yelled to the cops,
"Do you want to see a real man?"

You don't like Joey’s, booths are duct-taped and cramped.
You like Capo’s, cozy and romantic,
but I like Joey’s jukebox;
two plays for a quarter and no CDs,
just oldies with scratches
grooving with memories.

Two quarters slide in but a couple behind us
arc like crossed wires.
High tension connection says he can't wait
to get her home to mess her up but good.

Your eyes cloud when I turn and say to him:
"Must make you feel like a real man."
His eyes red embers under the rim
of a dirty, black cowboy hat
perched like a crow.
Her eyes are disconnected,
like a broken TV.
“You want to see a real man?”
his tongue snakes into the burrow
of his mouth.

A real man steps into darkness
to the blast of a passing train.

"He's a psycho, pendejo,"
the owner says, "You better go, pronto."
"Vamos," but it's too late,
the psycho's back.

The long cool barrel of a .45
cold and heavy, twisting on my temple
like the devil's finger, my heart
clangs like the church bell
and from the jukebox, Elvis sings
"Are you lonesome tonight?"

Our eyes lock and load,
his breath is short and ragged
like a dog hit by a car.
"You want to see a real man, cabron?"
he whispers.

She begs him please don't,
time spills from an hourglass
filled with blood.
I hear him pull the hammer down
and a real man slinks away.

He drags her outside into Joey's parking lot
and her screams crash through an open window.
But before I can stand,
you push me back down again,
amazed I'd even think of repeating,
"Must make you feel like a real man."

I walk to the jukebox
and fumble for a quarter
to drown out her sound.