Dastardly
Weston Richey
no-good son
of a gun, low-
down in cheap
dusty black
dollar-suit,
even the evening
redness frowns
on damsel tied
to train tracks, razor
mustache, malevolent
horse hooves
dynamiting earth
from robbed
desert plans.
Nothing good
emerges, glinting
like God himself
shat gold,
from schemes
shaped like this
one, though
of course you
know all this—
have to know,
else why crane
a thick-sin
fed neck shaded
by bowler, looking
toward Thieves’ Landing,
then Tumbleweed,
anywhere, everywhere
the cowboy,
a beauty in beige
hide chaps, might
come from to save
a poor soul
again, to do you
in again, hogtied
& jailbound?
This dance
must be
the hundredth,
or the thousandth.
Which body
have you stolen
to see him
this time?
America
stretches out,
a big yawn,
as cracked dirt
& roasting cacti
waking from sleep,
dreamless, no care,
seeing only empty
expanse in the mirror.
There is no place
else but this cliff
over Red Rock,
over a bloody
land entranced
by itself,
to really see
another man,
how his mouth
moves without
bandana, how skin
calluses & sweats
outside leather gloves.
Repeat that
as many times
as you need
& someday
it’ll come true.
Repeat that
until the cowboy
comes home
after a long day,
tells you about
the broncos
he broke, asks
after your day’s
villainy, holds
your hand
like a lasso.
