Marge Simon

Boot Hill

At moonrise
above the dirt saloon
specters share stories,
the faded music of Babylon
whistled to the wind
through rotting teeth.

Painted lady phantoms
do the bump and grind,
a seductive dance
with filmy scarves
of dermal skin,
then ectoderm,
down to the bone.

Death visits to celebrate
with a breath of whiskey,
a reminder of conflicts
over women, gold, land,
moths and moonbeams.

The action starts at midnight,
wails, moans, shrieks, groans,
a clash of souls beyond redemption,
damned to war in purgatory,
a stench of burnt biscuits 
and rotten tangerines.

It’s over just before
the honking horns
of alabaster chariots
disturb the sunrise.

-Marge Simon