‘Spaghetti Western’

We are whispering in the loft
It is lunchtime outside
Figs and apricots
Hang sleepy with sugar
Scorpions and dead dogs
Parasite each other in the shade

We dare not move
For fear we will erase ourselves
In the hot high noon
As Umberto, still wearing his church clothes
Throws back the polished door
Patent shoes on the threshold creak

He scratches away at history
A short sniff away from us
Starts back like a little boy
Straight for his gun collection
Over by the slatted wall
Where the light comes through

There’s the skull of Jericho
The man whose will he broke
In a spring vendetta
Left the body there to cook
Precise, laid out for mourning
In the summer of ‘58

The delicacy of his hands now
Belies that trigger finger
A marker to a love
Of tears and betrayal
When he took revenge
He took it swift, sure

Now we boys are up close
And all afraid we shake
The dust loose from shelves
Hope he does not notice
Write our names in blood across
The ledger at night

draft - Italy – October 2005