True Crime

Poetry Kevin Prufer

One rich motherfucker bashed another rich motherfucker’s face in
              with a gold-plated putter

so the golf club’s snack bar was all atwitter

because who knew? Right here at Briar Cliffe Acres?

Good God, said the river.

Good God, said the wind in the pennant, said the yacht at the dock.
              One forensic examiner

filled the sand trap with sodium light while another dusted a nine iron

with fingerprint powder. The half-plastered ladies in tennis whites
              at the taped-off perimeter

whispered among themselves, how sad. And, here is a dollar,

the birds called to each other, pulling grubs from holes in the oak trees.
              Here is a dollar,

a dollar, a dollar.

And one squirrel, burying his nut in the weedy grass by the water hazard,

Got one, then went off in search of another.

And when for a moment the sun disappeared behind a cloud and rain

the fairway, the Bermuda grass grew greener, thicker and louder

with providence. With God’s holy love. Oh rich motherfuckers, we live in
              a world

of wealth and thunder. Just ask the rat and his hole full of plunder. Ask the

and his barge of sticks. One of you may be conked beside the golf cart’s
              rear tire,

like a thrashed cat too slow to slip the mean boys’ sticks: food for flies. But
                            the other

has two tickets to Zurich, one for himself and one for the dead man’s daughter.

Such bounty. The sun gilds us until we glitter.

“Each new issue feels like a public report from many individual private spheres.” —Antoine Wilson

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Issue 22



Winter 2015


Kevin Prufer’s recent books include Churches, In a Beautiful Country, and National Anthem (all Four Way Books). He is also the coeditor of New European Poets (Graywolf Press), and the forthcoming Literary Publishing in the 21st Century (Milkweed Editions) and the cocurator of the Unsung Masters Series. He teaches in the creative writing program at the University of Houston.


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