Everyone’s Wild West

The old wagonette has met its match.
All of the genuine rock,
The fake too, is puzzled.

The militiamen descend
To reenact tax season,
But the air is too dry

For even a pancake feed.
Everything is glistening.
The path: glistening

Like a handful of flour
Thrown at a bird.
They came to settle the land,

But it’s not something
That good planning would advise.
The hills want what’s wild,

The quills of propane tanks
Allow one to stroke in a single
Direction only.

They do not know what
Mystery in the dark between the tines
Of a cactus, which is taking

Aim at them when they turn
To go inside. Aiming, always
Just that, and never cracking off a round.