More than annoyed,
politely furious, and suffering
from PTSD,
I was elegantly unhinged.
I slipped on my Levi’s,
buttoned my white silk shirt
and strode out of cuckooville.
Sometimes I wish I’d lost it,
let them have it,
emptied the six-shooter.
But, I’m glad I didn’t.
Such types don’t need my help,
they go down on their own.
Plus, I thought, these are good boots,
who needs the mess?
I donned my Stetson,
left my name by the door in pencil,
grinding in the tip.
See it there?
It doesn’t say
puppet, robot, hostage.
Erase it
if you want to.
You’ll have to dig out the lead,
listening to your library of so-wrongs
singing its own music
on that player piano,
sounding like
a polar bear clawing
thin ice.
For the List at the Word Garden