Gunslinger

Sidewinding slither of lightning

quick-drawn, spark of a heavenly

revolver as God plays at cowboy.

We used to talk like gunfights:

count our words, dole them out,

send them cracking through the air.

Then a long silence:

both holding one more in the chamber.

Rain sizzles off the car. The Talking Heads

remind me that someone’s house is burning,

and I think “it’d be all right if it were mine,”

so that I could arrive to ashes

and be grateful for once that you weren’t home.