He was the very definition of a varmint:
a small troublesome animal.
His eyes were like two dollops of thick, black tar
and he had a habit of licking his lips with every pause,
and he paused a lot.
It took him darn near half a minute
just to say hello.
I stopped him mid lick. “What can I do for ya?” I asked.
“Oh, not a lot.” he said.
“Well then,” I said, “I guess that’s that.”
and turned to walk away.
“Hold on (lick) there (lick, lick)” he called to me.
I paused, but kept my back to him.
“Where abouts do you keep the motor oil?”
“Third aisle,” I said, “next to the red funnels.”
“Thank you” I heard him lick before he clicked
and turned his heels to mosey on.
Customers. They sure get under my skin.
There was a time, not so long ago,
when I’d a shot me a cuss like that
quicker than he could lick.
But times are hard for gun slingers.
There ain’t too many left,
so I’ve traded in my pistol for a nametag
and my holster for an apron.
My boss is a slender fella,
slighter than the twitch
of a lizard’s tail,
but he’s meaner, I think,
than any barroom blowhard
I’ve ever sent to meet his maker.
Someday, if things ever change,
and slingers are again in high demand,
I’ll tender my resignation
with the smoke and heat of two barrels blazing
and say to hell with the 401-K.
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