First-Class Riot

His hair was unwashed

Messy and uncombed

His face aged with last week’s shave

Sandpaper skin; rattle snake envy

Well used paperback book

He put on his dark blue Levi’s

Buttoned his collared shirt

He dusted off his leather boots

And placed his wool hat on his head

He drove his pickup truck out to the desert

Had no rhyme only reason

Searching for her name under his breath

He howled at the lonesome sky

Hot sun beat down between the clouds

Baked the cracked riverbed dry

Tumbleweed blowing in the wind’s grasp

Echoes of vultures circling overhead

He showed up late

And she was nowhere to be found

Just a damaged pocket-watch out of time

That hoped for one last chime

Because he’s a first-class riot

Unreliable

Beaten down

Not trustworthy

And territorial

Completely unhinged

And gave her the back of his hand one too many times

She left before he arrived

Rode the lost stallion as far as she could

Headed towards the rising moon

Didn’t leave any memories behind

Burned them to ash before she left

Burned them to ash

Left her haunts on the upright cross

Bloodstains seeped deep into the dirt

Dropped ripped and torn cloth 

Guided her hopes inside her treasure chest

Left her back home nest

He drove back to the border come dark

Without headlights to guide his path

Ended up in a ditch to die and waste out

Splayed to roast and rot

Coyotes call and moan

Towards his throat they do roam

Because he’s a first-class riot

© 2026 David Greg Harth

26.01.14.16.24.00@345ParkNYC