Clay D. Matthews
Sightings of Natty
He comes to town every April, out from some hole
off a county road, smelling of animal skin, dried meat,
Johnson grass, demanding a sprinkle of civilization,
young girls with white shoulders in spaghetti straps,
enough value-meal biscuits and gravy to make his belly warm.
In front of the hardware store he sits on a cracked curb,
polishes a deerskin pouch with Penzoil,
fills it with enough gun powder to blow up a storm.
When we pass by he motions to us, waves the troops home:
come buy, come buy. Out of a bag
he pulls an assortment of rubber band guns,
hand-crafted pine fused with the technology of clothespins.
I have my own, you know. He winks and reveals a holster
under the fur vest that sits around his neck like a dead lamb,
reaches for a carved bone handle while we back away.
A muzzle-loader, you see? My fathers. His fathers. Mine.
He rubs his whiskers like a Charlie horse, cocks the pistol,
and takes aim at the convenience store gas station across the street,
steady, steady, and Bang.
The word comes out of his mouth like a piece of gum,
a memory falling off a cliff in the backseat
of a big, yellow Cadillac. He smiles at the nervous space
between us, holsters his weapon, stands and stretches
his body to the sky.
