The next poem I will write will have rifle
slung over a limestone fireplace, with a rusty blood-stained trigger
so bent through years of conflict,
my uncle would grab my shoulder and say
“aim high, steady your hand, and don’t shoot unless you have too”
The next poem will have mountains
Shimmering peaks spanning across a western sky
and sunlight blanketing their ancient visages.
Crimson and stone to last a lifetime.
There’ll be a great bear skin rug in the next poem,
and lanky windswept palm trees idling along the coast of Granada
Massive leaves playing peek-a-boo with the sky
There won’t be any adventures in that poem.
I’ll save that for a bravado.