by Michael Mintrom
I saw the four horsemen of the apocalypse
drinking coffee on Church Street.
Different from the paintings.
No swords, no arrows, no scythe.
No flamboyant sweeping above hay fields,
smashed barns, chaos, death.
Just old timers reminiscing about the rodeo.
Their horse floats parked on vacant lots.
Strange license plates. I knew it was them —
the bowed legs, the cowboy gait,
as they hobbled to the diner,
their eyes accustomed to scanning
mountains for cattle, the sky for signs.
Men in groups grow loud, trump
anecdotes with one-liners, stack on
allusions to big sports wins, big losses,
then innuendos, and the pièce de résistance —
a vulgarity collapsing the whole house of cards
with a gust of laughter.
The horsemen were the same —
eyes tearing up, sniggers, snorts. What’s left to say
of world history, empires rising, empires falling,
of militarism, mysticism, desire and fear?
One said, “take down the fool”
and another, “patience, friend, be easy.”
I saw fatigues filling C-5 Galaxies,
wakeful sleepers, a draped flag,
family photos, ribbons on trees.
I saw the four horsemen of the apocalypse
drinking coffee and my blood ran cold.
Michael Mintrom is a poet based in Melbourne, Australia. His recent work has appeared in various literary journals including Amsterdam Quarterly, The Blue Mountain Review, Cordite Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, London Grip, The Metaworker, The Prose Poem and Shot Glass Journal.