THE CHIEF

if you go outside the bar
for a smoke
around 8 pm
you can see him approaching
like a giant bowling ball
pushing through mud
down the cigarette littered sidewalk.
depending on the time of year
it’ll be day or night
but all year round
his eyes will be great slits
above a steam-rolled brown nose
and slobbering purple lips
that smile with more meaning
than Mona Lisa’s cunt.
as he passes by you’ll notice his shiny black hair
pulled back in a pony tail
and after he babbles something to you
always indecipherable
he’ll ease on by
and one or two people
also outside the bar
will mutter, “there goes the chief.”