Technicians
of the Sacred shed feathered garb for disposable gowns and regular
pay, where roadrunners rot in the sun--no diesel power,
no CB squawk--lopping like tireless lung-gom-pa,
attention trained on a long-dead star.
At
the close of the Civil War, teenaged boys—"Naturally good,
sound to the core," in big floppy hats,
leather chaps, high-heeled boots with jingle-jangle
spurs, bellies
filled with red beans and coffee grounds, maneuvered
ponies along spooky routes...
