September Poem 51: The New Wild West Show

The yellow sky and blue white hills that rose

In the autumn of the earth. The cold and

Sometimes snow of the Smoky Mountains kept

Out the tears when looked on in a certain

Eye. The old man’s spitting years sputtered through

Like cleaning up. Like the skin from a dead

Snake, he pealed the bark of the mulberry,

A fiber to weave his back while also

Staying Cherokee in the November season.

He made his time in the casino to

Trade drink for play and wondered if this should

Be life to rob the weak to pay the poor.

To pay the weak to rob the poor. To pay

The cowboy to see the Indian play.




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