I wasn't worried about the drunk,
a St. Patrick's Day celebrant
who'd imbibed too much
to find his way home
and withstand the pull of gravity.
I hoisted him up, a rag doll held up
by the scruff of his neck, cuffed 'im,
and pointed him to toward the prowler:
another drunk for the tank.
I did worry when my snake
began to hiss to check my six;
to see the homeowner
coming up behind me,
hand behind his back.
I stare him into stopping.
What do you have there?
"Nothing."
It's dark. It's night.
I can see by a distant street light,
he's holding something long
and gun metal gray.
He has my full attention.
I'm in a bad place.
My right hand is holding up the drunk.
What's in your hand behind your back?
"A hammer."
He's scared, unsure of what to do,
woken out of deep sleep
to some one pounding on his door,
attempting to force his way in.
The homeowner has met his own snake.
He's afraid and that makes him unpredictable.
Why don't you stay there.
I'm gonna put put him in my car.
Then, I'll come to talk with you.
When I return, he drops the hammer.
The moment has passed.
His snake has waned.
Now, all he wants is to shake
my hand for coming so quickly.