The Patriot

Dan hovers over his hardware store guarding it against outsiders who might want credit or
anarchists and hippies who would use his goods to
rehabilitate addicts or save the Wyoming whales

or foreigners from eastern bloc countries like England or Berkley

nails do not leave Dan's shop for an unknown fate    he looks after his nails   they will
   not couple with liberal wood
his hose clamps will not encircle a long-hair's water
his breakers will guard no grow lights
his matches will light no funny cigarettes     "What d'ya need 'em for?"

Yes Dan can swear that's not his chicken wire enclosing a patch of weed along the river bottom

for thirty years Dan has spoken only to strangers
to them he explains the rules:
"I don't trade with hopheads, commies, beatniks or Catholics. Ike was a saint. Nixon got railroaded. No credit."

acquaintances are silently handed their faucet washers,
or his dusty fingernails point to a catalogue number,
then to the paint shelf
those Dan trusts, he ignores

evenings, Dan vexes Vietnam vets at the VFW
   "...you fuckers 'd stayed sober we mighta beat them commies."
     beer makes him vociferous

Dan missed the Big One because of a heart murmur "I'd of gone if they'd let me. But I'd 'a probably dropped dead on the parade ground."

so he sold hardware instead became a crack shot with his .357 and gave free padlocks to the National Guard Armory joined the NRA and the Big Horn Sheriff's Posse
did his bit against encroaching socialism

his wife has been intimate with all the meter readers at least one Kirby salesman and the mayor of a nearby village but
a man can't be everywhere, can he?