by David Thornbrugh
I killed the last buffalo last night.
Ran over him in a train outside Denver.
The meat of the last buffalo tasted like dawn.
We cleaned and dressed his body in the boxcar
taking us to Disneyland.
The last buffalo called me once too often
at dinner time asking for money.
When I killed the last buffalo I wore a Lee Marvin mask.
The blood of the last buffalo folded funny paper
when I sliced his furry telephone.
We chewed the last buffalo steaks in silence
with mouths full of legal arguments.
The last buffalo knew my name.
He answered the door holding the Wall Street Journal
and sipping a glass of red wine.
He looked like Robert McNamara sorry about Vietnam.
I killed the last buffalo yesterday before lunch.
I ran over him on my way to meet my agent.
I put him in the trunk to stuff later he’ll look great in the library.
When we kill buffalo my people waste nothing.
Every part of the buffalo is sacred to us
even the asshole which we pull over our heads to escape
the plains we’ve filled with used car lots.
We shipped his intestines to China to make jeans.
We gave his blood to the Mexicans to drink while picking our lettuce.
We rolled his eyeballs to Europe to see the great paintings.
When we cut open the last buffalo he was filled with computers.
Now that we have his bones we can start building the rocket ship
that will take us off this planet.
Last night I killed the last buffalo
walking in my sleep.
David Thornbrugh is an American poet currently living in Krakow, Poland.
