Reflections

Slow Howard watches the noon news,
the news breaks, the gutter commercial
comes on, to pass the time
Howard tries his fast draw, he forgot
the round in chamber, a magnum load

hurls a three-fifty-seven slug
at the moron flogging the dangers
of climbing a ladder. Acrid fog clears,
Howard lies back in his recliner as usual,
it's always been this way.

An early fog chills Sylvia Lake,
an old cottonwood leans too far
over the water, falls on its reflection,
lies in the water like nothing happened,
it's always been this way.