White Trash Hero


Sweat trickled down his neck
like marbles on hardwood flooring.
I admired from afar,
legs dangling off the back of his
grandaddy's old pickup.
Another shot rang through the air,
the same swamp air I've recycled through my lungs
a million times as I watched him shoot.

His kisses were of the type that
resembled hail.
I never spent much time with my skin
to his lips,
we were far too busy
shooting empty beer cans and
sucking in smoke.

His trailer home wasn't far from my own.
I'd walk there every day
if it meant we could drink each other's scent and
play hookie from school again.
Waving to the plastic nativity set out on his lawn,
I realize that I wasn't happy anywhere else.
Despite what people may have thought,
he was my home.
He was my white trash hero.

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