Spaghetti Western
Sept 6 2007


When I watch Westerns
I’m never the short guy in the bowler hat who runs for cover.
Or the red Indian, all stern and noble, back-lit on a rocky butte,
whom we all know
is doomed.
No, I’m Clint Eastwood,
in a big white Stetson
squinting into the setting sun,
taciturn and dusty and good with a gun
— even though it’s not always certain
just who’s side he’s on.

Because no one needs to know
I’m afraid of horses
and believe in gun control.
Or that spaghetti westerns were made in Italy
of all places
— wine on the piazza in the Tuscan sun
instead of rotgut whisky in a cheap saloon,
where the floors are dirt
and the whores, a dollar.

I know most women find the cowboy irresistible,
but I’m not sure they really get it:
the lone rider . . .
the unfenced frontier . . .
just getting it done, instead of jawing on.
I suspect this romantic chap wouldn’t last long in bed with her
on clean white sheets with frilly pillow covers.
First, she would banish him to the tub,
where even a wire brush couldn’t scrub the dirt off.
Then something for his breath,
which could stop a stampede quicker than a pistol shot.
And the last straw
when she whispers in his ear “tell me what you’re thinking”
and he doesn’t talk;
just keeps staring up at the ceiling
eyes squinting like it was high noon,
wishing for some juicy tobacco to chew on
and a good strong horse underneath him.