Desperate Times

Each day mid-afternoon
when the sun swooned
the old ones to sleep
he left the fuzzy gray walls
of the castle he called home
for the sun scorched fields
and his chariot
rust-weary from turning the soil.

He mounted this magic throne
whistled for White Fang, Battle and Bob
with the wave of his hand
they roamed through fields
crowned with angle hair
searching for danger
seeking injustice.

With the wave of his hand
he counseled with red men
soared with the eagles
floated on cotton bole clouds
until earth tucked away
the last blaze of day
to save for a pastel dawn
then he hid his memories
to hold for a desperate time