Trish Saunders- A Poem

Billy the Kid is Dead, Dead, Dead 

Quick, boy, send this wire!

William Bonney, alias Antrim, 

alias Billy the Kid, alias

Henry McCarty is dead, dead, dead.

Burying’s tomorrow in old

Fort Sumner.  Who knew the Kid

was lingering there? We thought

he rode to Texas, a coyote

following the yellow moon.

Billy the Kid! Dead at 19! Body
lies on a carpenter’s bench,
his six-gun empty,

bullets scattered to Hell and back.

Mrs. Antrim is greeting him now--

what'll she say to her blue-eyed son?

Banshee she is, she tried to help,

sent dark clouds to blot the light,

winds to fell a big oak tree and

block the road to Maxwell’s house 

while Garrett waited

in a darkened room.

Billy, do not step through Maxwell's door!

screamed her ghost, he didn’t hear.

Who knows why?  They say some gal

had addled his brain. I only know:
Garrett cocked his gun, this time

he didn’t miss.

That’s all, boy, send this wire COD, 

yellows will pay gold!

Life’s funny, ain’t it?
I remember

when Pat Garrett was a
common thief, and
Billy the Kid
wore a star on his shirt.   

Trish Saunders, who loves American history, divides her time between Honolulu and Seattle. She has poems published or forthcoming in Silver Birch Press, Blast Furnace Press, Off The Coast, other places.