Trainhopper

Trainhopper has a sick ferret in his shirt the whole night.

Tiny claws grip his chest hairs, furry bottom nestles
in palm. Every so often, he pushes a bottle of cow milk
into the sick creature’s mouth and takes a swig of whisky.

The ferret won’t make it past tomorrow but tonight he’s
more popular than the stubborn piñata or the girls
spinning fire with slicked-down ponytails.

Trainhopper’s stories get louder as the night gnaws on.

He has oatmeal stout charm. He can tell you how to
skin a raccoon or bottle rattlesnake venom with such
utter delight, you would think he’s the Mr. Rogers
of the Anti-Civ Movement.

When he gets to the one about fist-fighting two
scumfucks in the boxcar, I look at my best friend.

It’s her thirtieth birthday. Two braids rest on her back.
Eyes gush like fresh Krylon on warm metal. Black
converse, black laces, black jeans rolled at the cuff.
The same two rings she’s worn since we were twelve.

She’s hitchhiked across the country, ridden a grainer
at sunset, whittled spoons by the fire and now she just
wants to make babies with this man.

This man with a sick ferret in his shirt.

From the Smell of Good Mud, © 2012, Write Bloody Publishing
> NOTE: I’ve edited this poem slightly from the way it was originally published. All poems are living.