Two Poems by Tammy Daniel
Lock, Stock and Barrel
In the corner
by the window,
Dad’s hunting rifles
stood with tung-oiled conviction
like soldiers waiting for the call
to arms, for the next big hunt,
another shot at a white-tailed buck.
“Anybody’d be lucky to have ‘em,”
he’d say to just about anyone
within a beer’s reach.
Seems he was right—
the man at the pawn shop
said the same thing
as I handed him
Along the interstate candy corn-like cones
merge three lanes into two.
Percolating from my car’s stereo,
an overly-caffeinated traffic guy tells me
in his best, midwestern radio voice
the mornin’ rush is s l o o o w goin’.
No one but oxen and morons
Then, with great wisdom, the keeper
of all things traffic suggests alternate routes,
allow extra time. Leaves out more useful advice
like stop for gas, remember to go pee.
Now, with tank half-empty, bladder half-full,
I’m caught in the clog like bile threading
an impacted colon. (I mourn the loss of our city’s
arteries since the failed triple bypass.)
Next to me, a red, bull-nosed tow truck
sneaks up alongside, sniffing at the congestion
in a slow succession of false starts and stops.
Across his rear window
a tattoo reads “In Memory of” and
Makes me think he’s towing a lot more