The Illusion of Ferocity…by Robert M. Katzman
The Illusion of Ferocity by Robert M. Katzman © August 25, 2019
Opening the heavy public door
Of the small town’s antique shop
Windows so thick with dust
The Sun must hunt for scratches
To slide a beam through
As my eyes adjust to the dimness
I turn sideways to squeeze through
The jammed aisles
Under buzzing fluorescent lights
Passing a disintegrating moose head
Black and White Raggedy Ann’s
End of the War!!
Headlines on wrinkled yellowed newsprint
Screaming in tall black letters
Which war? I don’t care
And I keep moving
The wooden floorboards bend under
My footsteps, squeaking in annoyance
“Keep on moving, ya old fart”
They seem to be saying to me
I think in reply
Our silent dialogue
“What? I’m not old!”
But I do as I imagined I was told
Passing racks of vintage clothes
Vintage?
To me that means before I was born
Because after that
Nothing is old
Me?
Not old
Experienced
Lying to myself as I pass the
Quaint slim Coke bottles
The chipped Howdy Doody freckled marionette
A worn VHS of “Ding Dong School”
A brace of Roy Rogers six-guns
Snug in their black holsters
Then I pass the army knives cabinet
In and out of cracked leather sheaths
Weapons gleaming, wicked, ready
World War One bayonets
And I flash back to when
Once I carried a honed Buck knife
Everywhere I went
Handy on my thick belt
In its black leather sheath with the silvery snap
Nobody better mess with me
Because, well,
I was good with a knife
In a drawer now, someplace
It was just too heavy to lug around
Then came the rifles and pistols
Lining a wall, locked
Rich brown stocks
Black steel barrels
Triggers once delivering death!
Different times, different wars
M-I’s and Winchesters
Colts and Sharps Rifles
Springfield’s and Navy revolvers
I had a rifle once
Dad brought it home from Japan
Which my small hands held
When all of five years old
Man, I was dangerous
I stared, imagined, moved on
Didn’t need a weapon anyway
After it was stolen fifty years ago
I could kill a man with my hands
Like lightening
Punch a bad guy’s throat
Twist his head until I heard the crack
Walk over the dead body not thinking
Indifferent, ready for the next one
I could do that
I think I could do that
Once
Walls of that crowded antique shop
Seem to move in on me
All my thoughts filling up
Every available nook and cranny
I was the guy
You step aside
And all the bad guys did that
And then I’d mount my horse and ride
Confident and proud no punk
Would dream of back-shooting me
As I turned to escape my
Imagined fierceness of a
Churning kaleidoscope of
Dimming memories
Some must have happened
Most didn’t
I’m sure I was a terror
Once upon a time
When was that time?
Then my shoulder brushed
A dust-covered gilt framed mirror
Reality exposed me
Fake gold, but honest reflection
I dared look
Saw the old face
Random white hair
Sagging ears and baggy eyes
Sloped shoulders
Waddles on my neck
No!
A lie!
I was a dangerous man
With a knife
With a gun
With my hands
I could kill evil
I was feared and respected
But the mirror
That damn mirror
Who was that fluffy old guy
In that gilt-framed mirror?
I turned sideways
Swiftly sliding through Time
Object after object
Pushed against that heavy door
Out in the sunlight
Leaving Time behind me
That mirror
It, it was a mirage
Because everyone knows
I am still
A very dangerous man
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