How high the walls
how deep the valley
how dark the shadow that falls
along the path I walk
alone
I speak in codes
anchored in water and eternal life
triumph eludes me and
the shadows pursue me
the images appear abolished
disgraced emerging in keeping
with suffering as a symbol
crossing the edges of my
golden age
forbidden to suffer no more
remarkably I learn the truth
while Hawkeye, The Pathfinder,
my ring tailed raccoon, quietly
sits on the majestic oak dining table questioning
the scene or at least so it seems to
me who fidgets nearby
deciding that it is indeed time for a classic
English Martini made with Gordon's Gin
and semi-sweet Vermouth shaken with ice, not stirred,
poured into a classic
tinted
long stem
cone shaped
wide circular
lipped glass...

the apache kid