Sheriff Matt Whitlock Confesses to a Lesson…

I like it quiet like this, Alton. I like

to think. I love the way spring light falls

easy, soft. This morning I was driving

the cruiser, savoring gold pollen everywhere

out in the south of the county. Real nice,

seeing forsythia and daffodils, ditch irises,

and a few Cherokee roses opening white.

It was a blue day, and I had a Tampa Jewel,

just counting cows, seeing an April breeze

in the catkins and new leaves, the radio off.

I know that’s hardly right, but curse

any citizen who’d grudge me an hour’s peace.

Then I started seeing this marksmanship

in the caution signs, the yellow diamonds

that warn of deer or curves ahead, a steep

grade—there’s one of those. Four circles

and a jagged hole, likely a thirty-eight

slug, smack in the center neater than Willard

cleaves meat at the joint. A dozen and more.

I got mad because I get paid to protect

what the county commission declares holy—

the park with its petting zoo, the rebel

sentry on the square, and all the highway signs—

and here’s all indications that some felon

has no respect, some felon who can shoot.

I admit my feelings were mixed, that right

indignation at the broken law, but envy

of his eye for centers. Mind you, I saw nary

a rip on the fringes or a near miss. Bull’s-eyes,

every sign I saw. A fool is what I feel, you

understand, cause I motored over to Pig Burton’s

store near The Bottle and asked him—he was

stacking feed sacks on Robert Ring’s vehicle—

who the hell was the target king of Beat Three.

Pig always has his hands in every pie; he’d

know if some individual had been hauling off all

the turkey shoot prizes. I know I should know,

too, but a sheriff’s got beaucoup chores

to do, mostly idiot paperwork. I’ve lost

touch since the last bond vote hired me four new

deputies, all dirt-dumb. Well, old Pig has

that laugh he can’t hold back, and he points

his finger pistol-like at Robert, who’s got

a shamed look on his face. “Pow,” he says

at me or Bob, looking back and forth, just

“Pow.” Seems Bob’s boy Earl, the one

that ain’t got the sense of a chicken under

that cowlick red as a rooster comb, is known

to have sneaked Bob’s Colt a week before

and shot every yellow sign he could till his pa

ran him down and whacked him good,

then locked him in the fall-down curing shed

overnight—he’s a hard man, but he loves

that boy. I remember once ... but how the hell

can any half-wit you wouldn’t trust to milk

hit the bull by the eye first time he ever gets

loose with a handgun? “It’s easy,” says Bob,

less shamed than afraid now he’ll have to pay

for fresh metal—his people have always

been tight—but he’s showing a grin I don’t like.

“Real easy. He just cuts loose from the hip,

five short feet back, sometimes maybe six,

and comes back later to paint the target circles

wheresomever his bullet hits. He aims that

paintbrush right smart.” Blessed if I don’t

feel the fool for being full dumbstruck

at a trick Earl’s not bright enough to see

as a joke. But I didn’t write it up nor charge

a soul, just ground my cigar in the dirt

and helped myself to a Dr. Pepper, made believe

it didn’t mean a thing, but all day I’ve been

riding, listening to crime reports on state radio—

robbery at the mall, attempted rape maybe, wrecks

on the bypass and a set fire in Brill’s deer woods.

It gets to be too much. I shouldn’t even take

the time to sit here watching this dark space

where folks have been dancing all evening,

hearing the quiet after all those raucous songs,

but Alton, don’t you see, the feeble boy’s right,

or half right, at least? It all comes to the same,

whether you get what you want in the end or

want what you get. The law works that way:

each law makes more crime, but it’s not my job

to say. Warm up my cup just one last time.

I’ve got to circle Ampex once more before

I turn it home. God, this dark feels right,

no matter what flowers out there shed spring

light. The dark is what hits me as holy.

I’m calling it a day. Catch you later. Night.

Copyright Credit: R. T. Smith, “Sheriff Matt Whitlock Confesses to a Lesson in Zen after Hours” from The Hollow Log Lounge. Copyright © 2003 by R. T. Smith. Used with the permission of the poet and the University of Illinois Press.

Source: The Hollow Log Lounge (2003)