Pony Express

News came from the West years later
like light from stars,
reporting to parents who were,
no longer are.

Son dead or a daughter gone missing,
still mail went out
by friend or by horse or by rail
to offset doubt.

Some letters were never delivered.
Some mail came back
with a note that was never an answer.

Still mail sacks filled
until hope like a flame guttered out
or was snuffed by cancer.

You are not alone
in wondering
what it was that went wrong.

After years of wearing,
it seems I no longer fit you,
nor was fit for sharing.

These letters I write
are for airing a mild complaint
to the Indians
who ride painted ponies

and who also paint
their faces and the faces of cronies
who seek to kill
the message
as well as the messenger.

You see, I'm learning:
if the target you aim at is missing,
it cannot be hit.