Six Shooter

The statuary of the Christ
rakes leaves with the twelve
behind the altar of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha Church
just off the road that runs the edge of the bosque
not far from where the "Breaking Bad" celebrants
chew little blue candies and wail for the loss
of their anti-hero.

Sage leaves burn as incense
in simple ceramic sensors, open faced,
smoke curls toward the ceiling.

Across the street the used bookstore parking lot
is full of high school students, whose teen rebellion
is to unplug and wear saddle shoes
and swear never to light up
with mom or dad’s medical marijuana.

In the bosque, in a clearing with a gazebo like structure,
a group of grey-haired poets take turns braying sections
of Howl and pull brown-paper-bag-wrapped bottles
from under their coats to take a swig
and tilt pints toward clear-sky heavens.

In the haunt of an old garden shed
a thin wrist girl leans into the embrace
of the boy she cannot live without
and kisses him full on the lips—
is surprised when he pulls back
from the dart of her tongue.

The blue sky pierces any eye that looks upward
and the sun might as well be
the glint of a twenty-dollar double eagle
found in the mud at the long-ago ford
where some westward pioneers camped
the night bandits road them down
back before Samuel Colt created equality.

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