he lived in an old sardine trailer
rusting on a grassy hill, alone
they spoke about him in hushed tones
with whispers reserved for cancer victims,
maniacs, ghosts of a wrecked past
we went up there to see for ourselves
peeked in the cracked back window
flies buzzing around garbage cans
stale yard littered with beer bottles
he sat barefoot staring at a black & white TV
wearing army fatigue pants, no shirt
crackling radio playing a rolling stones song
he threw his head back, moaning
about green onions, yanking one from
a bunch on the old table, gnawing at it
then he picked up a bb gun & fired
two or three shots through the window
missing us as we sprinted off in terror
(worthless villagers in his gone eyes)