Pancho Villa

I once shook hands with a pawn-
broker in Chicago who claimed
to have the desert saint’s trigger-

finger cottoned in his fridge, and ever
since, each time I twist a lid of pickled
gherkins, lick the sweet vinegar

lizarding off my thumb, my mind
twitches to Chihuahua, like a tumble-
weed churning in the blue tequilaed

sun, lipping to itself Pancho’s
parting shots: ‘don’t let it end
like this – tell them I said something’.

unpublished poem, © Kelly Grovier 2008, used by permission of the author

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