Good Fight

Apache arrowed to a porcupine,
But chiefly in the heart.
Hope faded in the flaxen weeds,
The summer sun was high.
It oddly fired her hair
As she mourned me by sway
Well before my good night.
Yet, wasn’t it a good fight?

How it lasted until I fired
My last cap. I shot well, each
Taking at least two down.
There were times I was Custer,
Times Hickock or Cody,
But under a storm spree
Of missiles, it was me.

Death, then, all prelude,
A scene made bright and warm
As she hovered in angel form
Waiting my best end breath
Cast as an ode to self,
And always hoping for that bliss
Of her farewell kiss.

Now, the books are shut,
Movies unreeled, TV shows unrun,
And she’s long past mourning.
Now, out of the sun’s spotlight,
It is a big not. My breath comes
Unshaped by words, the arrows
Are stuck in flight. Yet,
Wasn’t it a good fight?

James Duke