THE LAST RODEO
strange this trip back in time
not with flesh and blood but
in the disguise of poems
having survived all these decades
the muscles the cells all changing dying
yet somehow managing to survive
traveling through a time tunnel through
an origin you cannot remember because
there is no you to remember it
I walk behind my shadow
shed the years like a snake sheds its skin
I who have never called myself a poet
never clothed myself in consonants and vowels
nor took refuge in similes or metaphors
yet plant the words on the page like
a florist preparing a bridal bouquet
a tender arrangement of flesh and bones
at war with the demons who leave behind
a Custer massacre of words
left cooking these images like
a skilled fry-cook at a greasy diner
I wake at three in the morning
with junkie like sweats
my eyes a heat-seeking missile
homed in on an invisible kill
left feeling like an alcoholic with the DT’s
trying to roll a cigarette atop a bucking bull
at the world’s last rodeo