When time hammers
a horseshoe
upside down upon a hoof.
When wind and rain like
weeping gods
rip at your tin-thin roof.
When the trees,
your only neighbors
turn their backs to you,
aloof.
When the angel
of death binds
your feet and hands
and doubts drop
from spiders
like silver strands …
It’s one of those days
when you bring out the spade
to bury your gold
in the weave of a burlap sack
under the sluff
of forest jade.
It’s that last flash of light
when the sun sputters
and runs out of rays
that you dry your eyes
upon your sleeve
and fall out
of self-pity and malaise.
So, down the hatch
and cup a match.
It’s time for the sweet stench
of Maduro cigars.
It’s time to bang
on bar pianos and
strum sorrow
from the souls
of old guitars.
Sit on some brick.
Wonder heartsick
and drink whiskey
from used mason jars.
Sometimes,
in the West it’s best
to stop pondering
the infinite mind
behind
those ice-blue stars.
Peter Verbica
Peter Coe Verbica, grew up on Rancho San Felipe, a cattle ranch in Northern California. He earned his BA in English from Santa Clara University, a JD from Santa Clara University School of Law, and an MS from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He is married, with four daughters.