On Butch

His early work with his bare hands
and quick mind was inspiring
and cheap, taking out his more talented
rival with a kick in the balls
and a two-fisted home run swing
to the left cheek. Then he stole
the man's ideas and took credit,
cash in hand, for the train heist.
And didn't he look grand
in a three piece suit, watching the marshal
try to raise a posse to go after him,
sharing a bucket of beer with a friend and
hiring a prostitute for late night conversation?

He only raised his voice when he heard
how much the Union Pacific Railroad
was spending to try to capture and kill him.
Spoken not like an economist, but with
all the bitterness of a child who believes he has
been wronged by his father. "He should have
given that money to me!" Or, perhaps, just
a regular working man, who, after a life
of robbery, wants to retire on a steady pension.

Left with no option but to flee, he and
his gunman go multinational, following
America's manifest destiny of exporting
its thieves. It's less exotic than one
would hope, and lacks glory. Mostly
rocky trails and dense shrubbery,
the bank hold-ups are both routine
and disfluent. If he had been looking,
he could have found himself
on that journey, reflected in the leader
of the six Bolivian bandidos he wasted
on his one failed attempt at honest work.