I had a work-colleague,
the Head System Programmer,
who told a story
at the work-cafeteria-lunch-table
where we gathered by agreement,
to commiserate complaints and tell war-stories
His story one day was about his son,
who had some dispute with a car-dealer,
resolved unsatisfactorily,
so, he told us with chest-swelling-pride,
the kid drove down there one night
and blew the front display window of the dealership
out with a blast from a double-barreled-shotgun
This was in Texas, of course,
so the reception of his story by his audience
was leg-slapping, horse-laughing, braying approval
I, uh, I . . .
Some short time from that, one morning,
my colleague was absent from work –
Where is he?
In hushed tones we were told
that on the night before
his son had detected car-burglars near his pickup
and ran out with his trusty shotgun to settle hash
and in the scuffle was killed with his own weapon
Everyone-in-the-office was expected
to attend the funeral,
to view the open casket,
offer condolences,
avoid any lesson-learning, moral-giving, told-ya-so’s,
and I did that much