from the freezer
into a 12 ounce
But I’ve no drink
other than Pepsi
with which to fill
My Father. The Squirrel Slayer.
My mother claims to have tried to raise good boys.
I like rock music. Like my father before me. I like Big Macs and Whoppers and Coca-Cola and eating piles of yet-unbaked goodies. Like my father before me. I drive at ungodly speeds down the street, tires squealing as I pull into the driveway. Just as my father does. My father’s quips and one-liners I repeat to those around me. Spiders still do their pushups on the mirror. My father sits in the backyard, BB gun in hand, smile on his lined face, waiting for squirrels at which to shoot.
I’ve improved on his methods. Today I ran over a squirrel.