Spawn of fatherless

whores and castoff mistresses,

the orphaned bastard shadows

of our dreams do not sport

keffiyeh, piercings, or tribal tattoos.

Disguised in cowboy attire

flashing Elvis grins, they are the quiet

mild-mannered neighbor who is

never any trouble until dismembered

bodies surface in the back yard.

Who by daylight, door to door, peddling

essential household goods, politely

knock, tip a hat, say thank

you, Ma’am, and please, drink tea

and stroke their victims’ egos and knees.

Who by lamplight charm and swindle

the barkeep out of steaks and ale

while out back the skeletal stallion herd

they drive each pink sunrise into the mines

starves left to lightening and hail.

Who are the feral green-eyed

mother’s sons, cherry-bombing

BB-gunners that on chore-less summer days

shoot birds, whip snakes, eviscerate

frogs, burn cats, torture dogs.

Who groom our lawns, carry

out and light our garbage, help

the elderly, and search for our missing

pets, while late at night they tap

upon our daughters’ windowpanes.

Scofflaws, never apprehended

who grew into closet alcoholics,

gamblers, blackmailers, terrorists, senators

and cheats, judges, dealers,

dirty cops and secret mercenaries,

double agents of no country.

By Shelly Norris

From: United States

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