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.