Eastwoodesque

No easy choices or peripheral vision‚ really‚

conversations begin and end on a leer

cleft with trilled penny whistle‚ mule whips‚

a disembodied chorus chanting tee-yah

in cracked Italian. When I reach for milk

tumbleweeds skirr the kitchen’s gold linoleum‚

spurred west by some unholy sibilance

I fear isn’t wind or the late bus from Fresno.

Spare me the trash empiricism and keep your

paws off my Steinway baby grand.

Here comes sunset‚ rouge mantling Monterey‚

the bay freesia with crass halogen yacht-light.

and I’m wordless‚ hogtied by muted

notes the botched player piano strides

and points to shadow‚ air between the ivories

my right hand can’t understand or chord.

Buck up‚ partner. I’m mayor of this city.

You mosey inside‚ practice Misty for me.