DWI, poem by CL Bledsoe

They pulled Dad over on the way home
from vis­it­ing us at Aunt Louise’s house
where we were stay­ing while the divorce

went through. His truck died, so he shut
off his lights, cranked it, and flipped
them back on. A cop thought it was a signal

cause there had been rob­beries in the neighborhood.
When they brought him in, he informed
the whole build­ing what he’d like for breakfast,

how his cell should be dec­o­rat­ed. A preacher
came to talk with him. “Do you save people?”
Dad asked. “Yes sir,” the preach­er said, serious.

“Do you save women?” Dad asked.
“Yes sir,” the preach­er said, a touch of pride,
this time. “Do you save pros­ti­tutes?” Dad asked.

“Yes sir,” the preach­er nod­ded. “Well can you save
me a cou­ple for Sat­ur­day night?” Dad asked.

CL Bled­soe is the author of a dozen books, most recent­ly the poet­ry col­lec­tion Rice­land and the nov­el Man of Clay. He lives in north­ern Vir­ginia with his daughter.