My Stereotype
i’m afraid
he’s isolated
drives an F150
he can’t afford
aims his truck’s big wheels
at squirrels rabbits
foxes turtles anything
small enough not
to make a dent
speeds along virginia’s
dirt roads hopes some day
to rebel be brave but won’t
hates himself his life his job
assembling prefabricated parts
to frame a house his nail gun
firing until skeletons
of homes are up
drinks beer a lot
occasionally just one shot
of bourbon looks
over his shoulder
at latinos spreading
tape and spackle paste
on seams of sheetrock drilled
to what he’s framed
despises them enough
to kill for moving in
a few years back
he screamed a curse
about the world being
somehow worse
because he’s born
he boasts he lives
on an old farm
but does not
he wrote
some final thoughts
on my walls
before painters
came to roll
the primer