Gwendolyn Brooks — Strong Men Riding Horses Lester after the Western

Strong Men, riding horses. In the West On a range five hundred miles. A Thousand. Reaching From dawn to sunset. Rested blue to orange. From hope to crying. Except that Strong Men are Desert-eyed, except that Strong Men are Pasted to stars already. Have their cars Beneath them. Rentless, too. Too broad of chest To shrink when the Rough Man hails. Too flailing To re-direct the Challenger, when the challenge Nicks; slams; buttonholes. Too saddled. I am not like that. I pay rent, am addled By illegibile landlords, run, if robbers call. What mannerisms I present, employ, Are camouflage, and what my mouths remark To word-wall off that broadness of the dark Is pitiful. I am not brave at all.