My dead right eye breathes fire, burns me awake some nights.
I laugh a lot to cure fear of quick, kindless rattlesnakes.
And I like to pretend it isn't all downhill... seek a coyote savior
to lead me to a motel-deluxe room where light bulbs work.
What is it, precisely, we can offer each other, four-legged
to two-legged... and back again: No more fucking leg traps.
Mostly I don't answer the phone, because the Colt revolver
is way too not-in-hand: I can cope with crises... not turmoil.
Pretty baby throws the bedside clock-radio and the phone off
a college baseball poster, says, I can tell you what's gonna happen!
Sometimes we have a good grind, then I paw through Doc Holliday's
left over nightmares... and a little aged bourbon/cow culture wisdom.
Tonight's moon is waxy-pink and I get the wrong boots on each foot.
Sometimes I unreach the mark and feel sorry for my own missed cues.
One time I held her shoes so that she could walk up and down
a corn cob driveway just to say it was something she did naked.
Tonight my Personal Savior Coyote, a three-legged, hell-on-rodents
kind of guy, is sniffing out sick calves, not answering my prayers.