‘C’est un acteur usé,’ says rich old Ron.
Or might have said. His paunch shakes and he mumbles.
He leans against his guides. Then, winded, wan
and sick from altitude, Ron turns and stumbles
the path down to the village he has hired
as base camp for the party he has fixed
to celebrate his prowess. Those who’ve squired
him up the hill, and watched him wound the ibex,
will spend tomorrow searching for the beast.
Ron shot it in the stomach. Shooting stars
attend the dying ibex, leaking yeast
from guts gashed by Ron’s dumdums. Any scars
will not get time to form. While Ron’s in bed
his guides will shoot the ibex in the head.

Published in SOMETIMES IN BALANCE