THE SIGNAL FROM THE ANGELS

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After a life spent

repairing a heart  

that has ruptured

as often as a field of oil rigs

in the dust bowl heat of the 

summertime blues

Autumn has finally arrived in 

the form of a 

gunslinger of some years

who has just emerged from

the billowing clouds

Like a Texas cowboy

with rusted spurs

and low-slung belt

past the platform of

twirling parasols

that from space must surely

look like daffodils

As he heads for his

high noon showdown 

At the mission 

which stands in judgment 

at the crossroads of tree lined Main Street

whose leaves, 

as red as Malbec

cling to their branches

like desperatos who

quietly sing the verses of scripture 

and wait 

just like he does

for the signal from the angels 

to fall

and return to the dust

with their boots on.

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