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LIVING IN 1987

It's like an old movie,
black and white, that I turned on
in the middle, that I thought
I'd seen but wasn't sure and besides
when you get only one channel
well, you stay with it.
Everybody's lost in the desert
that's probably downtown Los Angeles
now: days, weeks
they've been waiting, no
water and they've already butchered
the horses, so Vegas is out
of the question. The closeups
of the sun, at intervals, dissolve
the eyes, the screen.
The stars have just finished
sharing all their secrets, the last
can of condensed milk spilled
into seven tin cups. . . .

And then the galloping crescendo
of cowboys or Indians
depending upon your persuasion
becomes a miraculous herd
of buffalo, far
from Merrill Lynch, wandering the mesas
to give food, drink and motion
to those who share
if not our luck, our hopes.

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