on leather cheek pocked
with scars. Eyeball-white red-lined
like old homework papers
framing dark brown ring
gold streaks radiating
from the pupil closed
to almost pin hole
in searing desert sunlight.
Heavy brows and wild hair
gray, bushy Mesquite.
Far distant solitary Cottonwood
firm, hard like him, fixed
in his environment. Behind,
across the mesa, out of sight
even if he turned to look,
a rusty windmill grimaced,
groaned against the ever-constant wind
that scurried tumbleweeds
like hedgehogs. What had he
to show for bustin' hump
for a lifetime? What had he
to show for some five hundred
fifty nights of brawling
drinking once a month
over half a century. God
didn't even know who he was.
No kin to speak of - parents dead,
used up, burned out long ago,
like him, workin' too hard
for too much of nothin';
no sibs, no friends, no memories
worth holdin' onto. Turning
starting back across the mesa,
he stirred up a sidewinder
that bit him on the leg. Got bit
twice more stompin' it to death.
He walked half-way 'cross the mesa
before he just lay down and died
going nowhere that would have
made a difference. Tumbleweeds
rolled past going only where
the wind was sending 'em;
and the windmill pumped
a little wate on dry dirt
and didn't stop complaining.