Spaghetti Western

Several trains whistle at once through Mechanicsburg
where winds curl the acreage and fences

resemble sails. Time tends to things
slowly, a hand deliberately dipping

twine in and out of a drum of blue wax.
I haven't for one minute forgotten what you told me,

how men are made: they hand a boy
the reins of a chariot and insist he not return

till he's injured himself: I'm afraid, then,
you'd be considerably ashamed of me should you

resurface. No one loves anyone just as they are.

Copyright © 2006 Tom Haushalter All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission