I remember the shotgun.
Loaded, leaned up against his rocking chair,
smatterings of his faded blood on the porch planks he laid
with haggard hands so many years before.
He wore a wide-brimmed Akubra, tilted forward to cover his eyes.
Not a cowboy hat. Or a Stetson. An Akubra.
He sipped from a cold can.
He waited.
When they drove by, they drove by slowly.
He laid the can on the porch,
raised the shotgun to his lap,
and showed them his eyes.
This was his home.