Nels Hanson
The Farewell
It was a dark black mask, and I
thought it looked OK. It looked
like the Lone Ranger –
The President
Against immortal evil in this
world justice fails, our legend
falls in broken circles, a spent
arrow. Old Friend, the Ranger
asked, tell me what I must do.
Leave the black mask, quick
pistols, let rain wash the pure
bullets back to the lost mine.
Unsaddle the stallion Silver,
no bridle, and if he bears you
ride until the place he knows.
And you, at trail’s end, Wise
Companion? I travel north for
one mountain there, to rest, to
lie down and sleep 100 years.
Hysteria
I think I drank too much
last night or something
else is wrong a doctor
might diagnose. Blink
at the TV and flowing
stripes and stars turn
to a symbol I won’t
name, what someone
named in some book
years ago a crooked
cross. Our leader with
orange hair wore black
mustache, a toothbrush,
and struck a pose I’ve
seen before, the history
channel, as an adoring
crowd in red baseball
caps raised stiff right
arms and I imagined
I’d awakened in a bed
turned time machine.
I must be crazy. Surely
they wouldn’t do it all
again, would they? I ask
you, Stranger, while I
dial 911, an emergency
that needs explaining to
the operator I can’t see.
