He comes into the Pluckers—hot.
He hugs me, lifts me off the ground.
Swaps out his Aviators & tac gloves
for a paper bib.
This freshly minted Alamo Ranger?
He’s buying.
Right now, he’s on dogwatch—the shit shift.
But he’s never looked more frosty.
He pulls out his punch card.
Reminds them of the veteran’s discount.
Like he’s not going to get
what he deserves.
We suck the skin,
gnaw the bones
until we’re all slathered
meal & man with Fire in the Hole.
Alonzo says, first thing, fuck the Alamo.
Stephen T. Austin owned hella slaves.
Davy Crockett blew himself up.
General Santa Anna is like, complicated.
He flags down the waitress for more.
Anyway, says my cousin, a job is a job.
I don’t even jump when they fire off the muskets.
I even got a Peloton.
He’s mops up the mess
with a moist towelette.
Swiping left on all the apps.
Standards: a good look for him.
When I move to River City for real, he says
I’m going to clean up.
He stands up & does a Triple H crotch chop.
You’ll see. You’ll all see.
This wing bar is half empty.
Still, I let him have this.
Vincent Antonio Rendoni is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection Dead Chicano Mixtape (Red Hen Press, 2027) and A Grito Contest in the Afterlife (Catamaran, 2022), winner of the Catamaran Poetry Prize as selected by Dorianne Laux. His work has appeared in AGNI, Prairie Schooner, Alaska Quarterly Review, Ninth Letter, and Pleiades. He lives in White Center, WA.