I went to see <br />How the West Was Won <br />at the Sunshine Theater. <br />Five years old, <br />deep in a plush seat, <br />light turned off, <br />bright screen lit up <br />with MGM roaring lion- <br />in front of me <br />a drunk Indian rose, <br />cursed <br />the western violins <br />and hurled his uncapped bagged bottle <br />of wine <br />at the rocket roaring to the moon. <br />His dark angry body <br />convulsed with his obscene gestures <br />at the screen, <br />and then ushers escorted him <br />up the aisle, <br />and as he staggered past me, <br />I heard his grieving sobs. <br />Red wine streaked <br />blue sky and take-off smoke, <br />sizzled cowboys’ campfires, <br />dripped down barbwire, <br /> <br />slogged the brave, daring scouts <br />who galloped off to mesa buttes <br />to speak peace with Apaches, <br />and made the prairie <br />lush with wine streams. <br />When the movie <br />was over, <br />I squinted at the bright <br />sunny street outside, <br />looking for the main character.<br /><br />Jimmy Santiago Baca<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/main-character-2/
