A Hoot Owl Hoots

I remember him sitting
with his head in his hand,
glued to a Formica countertop,
smoking Kool Menthols, slicing through
the blue-grey boredom to make change.
He hated that hardware store,
being a fixture in a block box;
the key turned at seven in the morning,
not again ‘til six at night.
It provided the electric fryer
with drumsticks and breasts, but
his preference was fresh caught fish.
The south Georgia swamps,
rivers, and Cypress knees
hold the memories of his steps.
A hoot owl hoots
in the silence of his sleep.