Last Roundup

I may have less than a minute to write this poem.

A poem CAN be short.
How far have my cattle roamed?

But my poem can’t be shorter than the time
it takes to round up those
tired, snuffy dogies. You know, I don’t want to say “poem”

every other verse, but what choice does the form
give me, since the fort
has been attacked by roaming

bands of cattle rustlers who don’t blink at sin?
Their pricks are tucked behind their saddle horns
as they ride into my poem

with pistols blazing, ready to begin
the mayhem, that actually becomes a kind of porn
shoot. That’s how far my cattle’ve roamed

while my silly rhymes
were mumbling in the corn.
I may have less than a minute to write this poem.
Only my cattle know where they have roamed.