Fist Fight Begins

the city job was miles away
and Jack searched for his needle-nose
but musta left it somewhere so he aimed his truck at Mott’s
Hardware up the highway, and he had to smile,
picturing those aisles so narrow, the quiet stereo playing
some lost tune from the fifties, but he tied up
his truck like a bronc outside
and shuffled the wooden boards toward “Tools,”
Cynthia watching from her front door
perch, blowing on some red-blue pinwheel,
the line to the inside post office half-way
up the automotive section,
and last spring’s garden supplies half-priced
now that no one needed sprinklers
since the county outlawed most
watering of lawns.

then he sensed that presence, couldn’t deny the
goose bumps on his arms not from cold but from
cold fear.

Jen’s ex was near the back room,
his clothes filthy from lyin’ in dirt,
but his voice recognizable, and Jack
wiped his eyes with his red handkerchief
then wrapped it around his fist.