I heard the sheriffs needed two trips to get her out.
This according to John Lee Townes at the Come On Inn
(An untrustworthy witness if there ever was one,
Prone to drunken blackout and sober embellishment
One step from rehab and two steps from the loony bin.)
The facts at hand were short on gore, long on the mundane;
Peggy Rabish—possessions few, her jewelry cheap—
Was found (bruised, but not bloody) laying in a profane
Yet oddly peaceful position of mock prayer or sleep.
As passers-by gawked, whispering inventions of jilted boyfriends and rich aunts
While rummaging through their memories in search of plausible alibis,
The state boys, diligent and professionally bored, secured the crime scene.
Suspects? One trooper barked, Shit, just look around here.
Meth-heads, drunks, welfare cheats—you tell me who the hell isn’t?
The park manager nodded, half-listening, turning his collar up against the chill,
His thoughts focused in filling this soon-to-be empty lot,
Vacancies and felonies being equally bad for business.