I was twelve when I first met him
As he sat in his Ford Gran Torino,
Canary yellow to be specific,
A Glock 40 on his lap.
He was calm, almost polite,
With a wry smile. I couldn’t
Help but be distracted by the
Long, ugly scar on his left cheek,
Extending nearly to his Adam’s apple.
I was too scared to ask him what happened.
He said, “Whachu want?”
I told him, “You know. Chiva.”
How much, little man?”
I realized for a hot second that he
Didn’t care I was only 12.
Why would that matter to a dope slinger?
©2016 Steven Barto