POETRY

No, I don't want you to trot
with your polite confidence
back and forth
in my nightmare.

Saddle, gun and spur
and the tilted hat, black
as the blood you spilled,
through the dead calm

that gave way, soon,
to the wailing in the wind.
"Yes ma'am, I'm 'fraid
I do honor t'day.

It's why I do.
There's no point now
in standin' in the way."
The macabre charm,

the same every time
but in different dialects,
singsong nevertheless,
leading little boys astray.

I did want to be
just like him
grainy, black and white
in the fog of my young memory.

But now I see
just another monster
like a million more, slitting
in color and in HD.