This Is Just to Say

This Is Just to Say (after WCW)

It was I who sent a spent cigarette
into the wind along that stretch of the
Indian Territories where you,
Lone Tear Trickling Down Cheeks,
earned your name.

Perhaps it skittered
and flamed out
at that same spot where
your ancestors,
marching west,
lost a beaver pelt,
a moccasin,
or a smallpoxed child.

Forgive me,
but the Marlboro's smoldering heart,
like your cracked face,
was red, red, red.