The Lone Ranger’s Port Wine Stain
It’s there. Just left of a prairie-moon blue eye
behind that mask of midnight sky. And once
in my safe house for the night I’ll say, ‘John,
slip that thing off, celebrate the birth branding
you brought from your mother’s womb.’
Huddled close to the hearth, the fire low,
it’s hard to tell from the corner
of your eye if it’s the port wine stain
or a side stretch of mask you see.
Such nights we trade tales over coffee
and whiskey, tell of the measure of men
– hard to gauge, the later the hour,
more the whiskey.
Sleep is short, I saddle up and he’ll conceal
his identity – or that innocent blemish. The sun
will rise – and if you think the sun shines
out of an arse, that arse’ll still streak the bowl.
I’ll silently question if a man’s character can tarnish
his deeds as clear as birth did this man’s face.
And off he’ll ride. Likely to the William Tell Overture
played on out of tune duelling banjos.
Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native North Wales. Brett is co-editor at the poetry and prose journal Prole. Gin, Jack Russells, and jazz are his perfect cocktail for life.