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Evening I Am Not Young

By Nat Myers From Issue No. 6

the sunset forgets to drip

when the blue birds sings in the wall

the pistol butt is dreaming of its holster

as lady bugs the red hands of school boys

it was all a trick like my plainworn ring

the darkness touching my back

as I cut the beef down from the porch

under the mausoleum of a dead man’s hands

groomed to fit like a rugged palm

the roads that are less traveled

where the birds look like men shot out of their saddles

men on the make, sanguine or sober

holding up the one picture left to dust

the pistol cocks but its sunset did not light on you

there is a shadow in the squalor that is not blood related

to the butterflies turning blue in the myrtle shade

staying alive meant putting down the law you wrought

when the stars shine with their safety’s off

the moon holds back the trigger with her teeth

About Nat Myers More From Issue No. 6