Email Poem

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Poem

They wait, deep down in the red earth,
covered from the yellow, Wyoming sun,
like Tom Horn, a while ago, 
but deeper than he, not the same, 
they wouldn’t kill for fun, 

and the bored army busies itself beneath; 
their mind-numbing  repetition unclear, 
but the fear, the fear stays, keeping them
on their toes and best behavior

and the specters of the cattle barons, and 
rustlers and Geronimo, wonder at these busy 
ants underground, eating, sweating, filling in 
a thousand forms; 
I wonder, do they write poems?

“Here I sit in my rocket-chair, wondering 
what’s  happening way up there, on the prairie; 
while down here, I tick the charts and ponder, 
how it would feel to turn the key, turn the key,”

blah, blah, blah….or perhaps they have 
chess clubs and baby showers and tense 
debating thrills, and Buddy Rich, jazz hours
between the  mind-numbing shifts and drills;

and there’s  a Slim Pickens, ride- em- cowboy  
move still,  next to every lady-soldier’s heart, 
while another day on the wide-open, God’s gift
prairie passes by;

and up above, in the dawn light, Tom and Geronimo
ride by the metal hatch singing;

 “I got you under my skin,”

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