THE SIGNAL FROM THE ANGELS

After a life spent

repairing a cowhide heart  

that has ruptured

as often as a field of oil rigs

in the panhandle heat of the 

summertime blues

Autumn has come to town

like a gunslinger of some years,

emerging from

a gasp of train steam,

with a low-slung belt

and rusted spurs

that jingle-jangle past a platform

of twirling parasols

that from space must surely

look like daisies.

He arrives for the

showdown 

at La mision de las almas perdidas

at the crossroads of tree lined Main Street

whose leaves, 

red as Malbac,

cling to their branches

like kinfolk in a flood

and wait

like him

to fall

when youth outdraws them both

and returns them to the dust