We called them cat-o-nine tails
growing there in the swamp
along Depot Road
Walking through the muck
we called quicksand
                         making ourselves scared

We’d pick those tails, fuzz them all up
Blow them to the wind
Down where Old County and Depot roads cross
near Phat Francis’s shack
                         he had twenty-six dogs

Phat Francis
Everyone just called him Phat
He’d drive his jalopy into town most every day
                         though never with a dog

His looks were something you’d never forget
Denim overalls baggy everywhere
except where his stomach stuck out
Straight out and pointed
like he had a huge rock in there
Red bandana hanging out of his back pocket
Always wearing his black stovepipe hat
A big old cigar forever hanging from his mouth
Smelled something awful
But it was his smell
and we knew better than to poke fun
we just held our breath
He’d stand around Lopes square
in the center of town
pontificating with his sandpaper voice
about one thing and another
People stopped and listened

We were told Phat was extra smart
When he died — Tom Kane’s column told
how Phat had run for town selectman a bunch of times
was head postmaster in Truro for years
in a time before we ever knew
                          Guess he must have been smart

The main thing about Phat though
as far as we kids were concerned
was that he was a Townie
And that meant
nothing terrible would happen to him
like going hungry
or not having a place for him and his dogs
                         The Town took care of its own

And that gave a kid a kind of security
Made you feel confident
when you blew the cat-o-nine tails to the wind