Tex

Dad told us kids to stay away from Tex
if we knew what was good for us.

Tex chopped the tail off a cat
with a machete.
I saw the cat screaming through the street.
Back then the cops never heard of animal cruelty.

The doctor told him if he didn’t quit
drinking he’d be dead real soon,
but that just made Tex drink more.

Sometimes he’d live with a woman
and then she’d leave, crying.
Then he’d bring another one home,
her arm wrapped around his skinny waist, giggling.
Sooner or later she’d leave, screaming,
and the poor kids came,
and the poor kids went,
and sometimes the poor kids went hungry.

I was at the city pool with him once.
He would sprint to the end of the diving board
and jump as far as he could
and make the biggest splash you’ve ever seen.

When Tex moved from his apartment,
he poured concrete mix down the toilet.
When somebody parked too close to his truck,
he bashed in their windows.
He wasn’t mean about it though.

At the funeral, Tex somehow managed to get his ashes
mixed in with the mashed potatoes we all ate.
Pastor Perkins gave us a stern warning:
we’d better pray, because
there’s a little bit of Tex in all of us.