Target Practice and Time

a poem

Shooting Beer Cans Off A 2 x 4

was not just sport. 
We called it Sunday.
We called it target practice 
for anything you might need
to shoot like feral hogs
or a wicked glance
or a photo of us shooting
pool in blue lit rooms when
we were young, drunk, and beautiful.

The best shots study with a gaze
like cut glass, defiant eyes
fearless to stare through the 
amber anarchy of a Texas sun, 
willing to look and keep looking
hard for any shimmering mirage
that might outline evidence of
a different life, one without leg irons
as hot as the barrel of a freshly shot gun.

Last night I dreamed I was young again
and rosy delirious in the cradle of my own lack of foresight. Twenty-four and crowned by an architecture of hair only AquaNet could create and two-stepping with men who unshackled desire simply by the way they could lead, one hand simple and strong on the small of my back as we swept in circles and circled across sawdust floors.

Beer cans fly off posts like startled birds.
No one cares where they land.
Could you hit one into west wind’s swerve?
Were you born blessed with a steady hand?