When I met Doc he shook
my hand like a man,
told war stories
with a southern accent.
My best friend Reno
introduced him to me.
Doc, he said, was cool.
Doc had a nice house,
a marble sculpture.
Greek boys wrestling,
masculine furniture,
heirlooms and aged books,
a Colt’s revolver on the nightstand
next to a photo of Doc in uniform
A crucifix hung
over his bed.
I was fourteen, my father, all our fathers
elsewhere.
Doc said this is a safe place.
He let us smoke cigarettes,
drink whiskey. He said
what starts here, stays here.
About this he was absolute,
experienced, desperate.