Eastwood’s on TV right now
in the usual role where his name matters less than the fact
that it’s Him
and I know the climactic gunfight’s coming up
after the commercial break

There will be impossible shots and trajectories
and justice for all

but first they cut away to a spot
highlighting a woman "making a difference"
in the South Bronx
where she trains "urban youth"
for "green collar jobs"

I don’t catch what they’re selling

When we return it’s business as usual
for The Man With No Name
His Navy Colts blaze with low-footprint accuracy
When all the bad guys are done
(one hanging himself in fear when his ammo runs out)
our hero forgives the last dying outlaw
saying "I don’t blame you for what happened"

Later he drops his badge on an emblematic mahogany desk
and rides away from the corrupt territorial boss
who’s going to get re-elected on a law and order platform
who has the railroad’s blessing
to hang ’em high
if it makes money

Maybe Clint’s off to plant trees somewhere
with the same skill he once used for killing
targeting the right places to put the holes
as carefully as the kids in the South Bronx
who have no names anyone’s telling us
who are being used to further something else

Our heroes have always
had to be careful

I claim, again and again, that it is not enough
to be a bag of hopeful skin waiting for a red dawn
to excite me into action; that it is futile
to lie awake a few minutes before the alarm sounds
and think about rising early to stand at the window
choosing to go outside and feel the first pulse of day;
that every potential carries its own failure…

and every day, despite my desperate position
on these matters, the sun comes up; every day
I may lie there a long time after the clock sounds, but I get up too,
rubbing my hide to get warm as I head for the coffee pot,
rubbing my eyes to clear them of night, deciding how I will get through
to the next moment of dreary necessity — the laundry, the bills.
the phone calls, the shower; how to carry forward
my half of the conversation.