He chained his German shepherd to a rusty pole.
His right arm was red where mosquitoes had bit.
He slept on a bunk with three empty bottles,
in the wheel-less trailer with the weed-patch out back.
He drove an old Chevy whose guts churned and cracked.
Every cop siren he figured meant him.
Each tattoo had its own forgotten meaning.
He hung out. He panhandled. He dealt now and then.
Someone said he was a veteran with a bullet in his skull.
Others' version - a dropout too crazy to serve.
Alcohol, drugs - he was all the time recovering from something.
Or trying something new to recover from later.
Parents steered their kids away from him unless they had a point to make.
He was exhibit A - there was no need for B.
He od'ed eventually, wasn't found for days.
So if you add that to the years no one bothered looking...
“He Answered to Ray” was printed in Salem Cemetery, No. 6 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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