poor little Julian: your truck little and red
will not make it through the night. a big mean man
(whose wife has pancreatitis for the seventh time
and who never ever ever drinks) took her down
like David did Goliath—though this time
the giant won because his ego boosted with every sip
of the vodka he never ever ever drinks.
poor little Julian: your shiny new toy
was stolen by a bully with wild white hair
and a thick slurring toxin on his breath. he came
to crash into you and take out your hopes and dreams
with one false screech from worn tires
this man’s mother (or maybe
his wife) gave him too much candy in his lunchbox.
poor little Julian: your night has been shattered
like the taillights you claim were working
when that bad bad man couldn’t find the brake
and couldn’t find the hospital where his wife lay
(for the umpteenth time) in a bed waiting for her husband—
although we are curious because visiting hours
end at nine.
poor little Julian: you became our after-dinner
entertainment for the night. your disgruntled cursing
through my window hushed the crickets
and told the robins nesting in the trees
to stop their damn night songs because you
(my good sir) had something to say to the man
who made his van a home in the back of your truck.
poor little Julian: your night caved in
on you and all we could do was watch
from our second story window while the police
hauled the bad man who never ever ever drinks away
and you sat mourning the lose of your used truck’s
pristine rustic shine—it’s all gone now
but we had a good laugh from it all.