86

Scrapdog loathed welfare rats,
“feminazis,” Obama—
spent his old age muttering
that a country the size of Afghanistan
should’ve folded in a week.
He’d learned his wars young,
eight years old at a mill-house table,
leaning over creased maps with his father,
tracking Europe’s flames,
the Pacific’s meat-grinder crawl.

Now he limped across the tennis court
like a busted relic,
a loaded pistol buried in his gear bag,
a knife ground to a razor
riding in his pocket.
At home every room was armed,
rifle across his lap
as he sat on the deck
listening to the Braves,
eyes sweeping the yard
for whatever threat
he needed to believe in.

The world, he said,
was crawling with enemies.
And he meant it.