Now he’s got a gun
Resting on my shoulder
As if I were a fence
In the old west…

Night falls sideways
Across the pounding, dusty
Yipping phalanx of
Fabric Indians.

The neighborhood
Windows blink to life.
A posse of kids rides
Home or out for booty.

The wallpaper fades
Like two-faced truth
When sleep calls.
My shoulder, the fence:
Failing relevance.

The nose of the gun
Grows dark, but rather
Then reeking of murder,
It’s caps.  You remember.
A ribbon of red
With magical black dots.

If I had a hammer,
I’d hammer in the morning…

And you do. But it’s not.
The black-and-white TV set
Of suburban existence
Has fuzzed in the tundra
Of bed time.