Caballo Chops
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 (accompanied by guitar)<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
Caballo sat on the bus near me,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 Unmoving and self-contained as a cactus.
\nHis moustache handlebarred over his lips,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 His potbelly pigged out over his nickel belt buckle.
\nLike a Navajo Coyote his heart was hidden deep away
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 And he breathed in short, phlegmatic gasps\u2014
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 Still choking on the desert’s bloody sand.<\/p>\n
If Caballo and his brothers had known they’d be so good at burying wives
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 They might never have started
\nInstead, he watched his fourth set down in the clay,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 A tall and frail girl with the bones of a Spanish princess
\nAnd a flickering blue flame under her breast
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 That was so easily snuffed out
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 In his woodworked hands.<\/p>\n
Keep on moving, Caballo. Keep on moving, Caballo.<\/p>\n
Caballo did not sleep
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 As the land swept from prairie to swamp.
\nHis straw hat sat balanced on his lap,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 Its yellow tarred in spots from putting on and taking off.
\nAt a rest stop I watched him remove his boots and wiggle his socks
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 Then pour the brown liquid of a silver flask into the dead shrubbery.
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 His drinking days were done; and no more wives.<\/p>\n
Keep on moving, Caballo.
\n****
\nChops hopped on the bus, all young and ugly
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 From some place called Jackson, Tennessee.
\nHe sat in the back and talked to no one in particular
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 But at great length and impressive volume.
\nHis teeth were bad but his words rapped like steel in velvet,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 Like his hero Muhammad Ali\u2014
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 But Ali should be every boy’s hero, if he’s got fire in his heart.<\/p>\n
Chops told me that a woman would be the death of him,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 But not if he could help it.
\nHis mother was a bitch, and his grandmother was a bitch–
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 So what if they birthed him! What the hell had they done for him lately?
\nI nodded, being afraid not to.
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 I looked like a man who would understand, he told me.
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 New York City is the only place to live.<\/p>\n
Chops don’t stop for nothing. Chops don’t stop for nothing.<\/p>\n
At the next station Chops shoved his way past
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 A slow-moving Mexican whose real name I didn’t know.
\nHe said someone might be looking for him in this town,
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 And when it was our time to leave he wasn’t in his seat.
\nChops needs space, goddamn it! to float and to sting.
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 To gloat and to sing.
\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 On a boat named “King.”<\/p>\n
Chops don’t stop for nothing.<\/p>\n
We the three of us thought them other people were the problem. Hell, how was we to know different?<\/p>\n
William Fancher<\/em>\u00a0is an MFA candidate in the graduate Playwriting Program at Boston University. This poem was originally performed as \u00a0a song at the Boston Theatre Marathon in April of 2009.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Caballo Chops \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 (accompanied by guitar) \u00a0 Caballo sat on the bus near me, \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 Unmoving and self-contained as a cactus. His moustache handlebarred over his lips, \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 His potbelly pigged out over his nickel belt buckle. Like a Navajo Coyote his heart was hidden deep away \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 And […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":317,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[858,1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/317"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=115"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":122,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115\/revisions\/122"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=115"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=115"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.bu.edu\/crwr\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=115"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}