This village
through which we’re
driving is home
to “Wild Bill McKeen”
and though we haven’t
a clue who he is—
or was—
his name is on
a banner in the air,
tied to a pair of
streetlights
to make certain
we’ll never miss it.
The posted limit
of speed is only
30, and there’s
not a lot to look at
so we defer to
our conjectures
as we crawl—
surmise
he’s a hockey
player, spent his time
in the penalty box,
a master of slash
and slew foot,
told the refs to
go fuck off,
took a piss
on the Lady Byng.
We then travel
back in time,
think he may have
robbed a coach,
rustled cattle,
outdrew the county
sheriff after starting
a barroom brawl.
We think of synonyms
for wild,
saying his hair was
endless, unruly,
he’d grown a beard
from chin to foot,
grunted like an ape,
clutching a raw steak
with savage hands—
tearing off the
pieces with his teeth.
In minutes
we’re back
in the country, racing
past the farms
and grazing horses,
say his rep
was overblown,
mere hyperbole,
from the folks
who’ve led some
pretty boring lives,
that Wild Bill McKeen
took his steaming
cup of coffee
without cream,
once jaywalked
across the road
while it was raining,
returning a book
overdue
by a day,
never guessing
he’d be immortal
on a sign,
or better yet—
in a poem,
by someone too lazy
to google
his claim to fame.
Andreas Gripp
April 9, 2023
RF Image
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