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.
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...