ISSUE: Summer 1984
The man with the shotgun
propped on his belly
has work to get done, watches each man
swing the bushax, hack with the slingblade,
sumac and mullein falling before them.
propped on his belly
has work to get done, watches each man
swing the bushax, hack with the slingblade,
sumac and mullein falling before them.
Cars whisper past a young prisoner
with kinky blond hair. Reflections
are the faces he hates, from childhood,
slowly drifting past into the present.
He looks up:
at noon the only shadow
is the hawk hunting above.
