Outlaw Kidnapping Bandit-friend Hurricane

the gravel played checkers with my feet
as i gave my legs the old one-two across
the if-you-love-it-let-it-go of the pond-rim,
lengthwise. there sat a circumscribing
path and in (and out) side of it were rough
approximations of untouchworthy greengrass.

there i toe-stubbed myself, in a surprise,
against a cheerful bebop cowboy ancient
high-noon home. the thunder-thievery
masked village bandit time withdrew.
Blends into the scenery, in to the mine,
plank supported, wolftrack, coffee grits.

I asked, as if to belong (his croon on some
almost-unstrung guitar behind by the guns,
the bacon, dry-goods, pack-saddles and gold)
 because he said-- good guys always finish. . .
 his voice was lost in pancho's triohatalas

sure i said (tin can coffee to mouth)--
if there is such a thing as a good guy
and if there is such a thing as finishing.

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