Posse's
savages. arms muscular
and tatooed -
a radio, wine bottle and
cross,
and they've tried to wash them
clean
but failed,
to hide the hideous acts
of their past
and to predict
those they have yet to commit.
thieves. shadows clingining
from wall to door,
who's reflections
in the glass eyes of
their victim
recall to mind
a young man
dark hair
dark eyes.
a man just like yourself or
i.
who blends into
the anymonity of
the night.
pimps. in suits with
bow ties and crooked smiles and
walking canes too,
trampling over hookers
bloody and bruised.
smeered lipstick
they assure me,
but i know better.
have seen all the
limps and scars
far gone minds
smoking in the backs of bars.
and she weeps on
us all and
i weep with her.
i swear
each night
there's one less star in the sky.
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