Periled Pastures

I’m a despondent man left swimming
in the grazing land

like shepardless goats feeding on toxic gardens,
a complete spoilage.

Like “Shotgun” Willie said,
“Turn out the lights, the party’s over.”

Another good thing came to an end.
No new start tomorrow.

No naked witches to bathe my troubles away.

Friends say there’s been a bodiless grave
dug up sometime ago. Just beyond where the

Western winds blow.
On the other side of nowhere.

Perhaps even out of god’s watchful eyes.