Trophies

the greatest hunter in the world (i thought at five)
was our shoemaker, already old when i first spied his white head and twitching eyes   (in a room of eyes, the only ones moving)
peering warily over a counter laden with leather dressings and shoe polish
   he was very short and, as he moved,
   his face flickered behind the stacked cans like a hunted rabbit edging carefully through a stand of brush

his appearance belied his reputation as a huntsman for he was squat and fat and round,
with rosy, rosy cheeks and oh, yes merry eyes that sparkled and danced and smiled.
sort of a manic Santa who slaughtered reindeer

he did not depend on his customers for sustenance, but for compliments, as he had filled his walls with
the vapid stares
and sawdust smiles of his victims, from
unimportant chipmunks to the
vast ram that haunted the entrance to his
darkened back room
(where i imagined piles and heaps of fuzzy remains)

he had preserved all his dead in a stagnant zoo

although i'd been taught to take pride in killing things,
it gave me chills when he patted their heads      but now i see he loved them    and maybe hadn't wished them dead at all
     ("i was cleaning the gun when it went off!")     and-- and--
     --and in remorse he fastened them to his wall   a reminder to be more careful next time     or

maybe he just loved them and better to have them stuffed and hanging than buried and gone
(there was no wife no kids, my mother told me)

at length he sold his shop to the Sheriff who turned it into a taco stand

we've not had a decent shoemaker since