Monday, June 1, 2015

Minor Poet and I Shot Elmore Leonard



Downtown Detroit on a black hot Saturday night,
rolling down Woodward
driving fast along Cass
Safe, but not,
in a two ton metal cocoon with wheels
Henry Ford owns my car
his name is on it
that's how i know
that the man with sunglasses
in a rust colored trench coat
standing next to a green graffiti covered dumpster
at the mouth of an alley leading to the First Gate
is really Elmore Leonard.


So I pull up to curb in front of him,
slide down the driver's window and shout,
"Hey Dutch! Need a ride?"
He turns his head side to side,
steps out of a shadow that dissolves instantly and
eyes my late model Taurus with fiction suspicion
and rolls a charred butt cigar end
with his silent tongue--
around his mouth
between gray stubble lips
and projectile spits
a perfect bullet shaped loogie
dead center onto white chalk sidewalk
crime scene cop remains.

Now this pissed me off
more than his success
yet out of respect to scene
I invited him to my reading
and tossed El Leebler's name
like a shiny silver dollar
into the night between us
which he caught with his right hand,
fist first in the air,
like an anarchist's salute in enemy land
and I made a Glock hand
and squeezed the trigger
dying to kill the bigger,
better gun.