What kind of poetry
would we write?
"An Aging Man on a Quarter-Loaded Convenience Store
Horse"
from The Misadventures of the Paisley Cowboy, Issue 1
by Charles Nevsimal
It’s a sad scene.
This guy riding an electronic steed,
the kind you drop a quarter in
for a 60-second ride.
And while I’m tempted to draw
some correlation between this
and the receding illusion
of the American Dream
I restrain myself.
Because the world needs its dreamers,
its harmless modern day Don Quixotes,
wielding plastic six-shooters
and capgun Ferguson rifles,
riding stationary on aluminum horses,
battling off the enemies of imagination
with youthful enthusiasm.
Where would be without them?
What kind of poetry
would we write?