Then

Just before evening two riders mount tired horses
After a scant feast and less chatter
One riding west and anxious to move on
The other riding east and leery of the clouds

Dry air drinking up their thin prose
Just a few sighing words about how it all felt wrong
Crow-footed gazes spreading to the horizon
The way things are is not how they ought to be

Swinging up onto old leather, cracked and shiny
One rider croaks out his dusty dirge
In another time when the paint was fresh
Colors and intentions were pure

Ah, says the other, that must have been nice
I heard them walls was always faded and flaking
You ever wonder from where the color came
Who painted the town in the first place

They rode on

-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Pupil”)