Vaquero and Hustlers
Jake Hajer

Plumes foam from
a land beaten;
A vaquero with a cloud
splitting whip;
when dirt rolls around in him.
Everywhere, rocks would rather
erode than catch fire.

He picks off
brown toughs sprouting
through rotten planks
of the fun maze.

Velvet and satin soak up
sweat, remove it
as a girl dabs what
held her in.
Arms more confident
than anything real.

She ropes lust
with the toss of tresses
in a room perfumed
of moldy oak, skin on
unwashed sheets, and
sand burning.

He keeps an eye out
the window at the dressing
room below;
The thieves powdering
actor’s rouge and admiring
in the mirror what
burns while sleeping.

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