poem for Paul

It’s a wonder these Eastwood blockbusters.
And it’s always the gore is set down nicely,

primed with shrock as we sit nicely,
spillproof technology for our soda or juice.

He plays the sidearm as if stage combat
were widening construction. His payout

is his long stare, his witsy parting words,
his slow origami affectation.

Friday rolls out and it’s back to the projection box.
We’re feeling sassy and maybe a bit demanding.

Work us asunder with this next one, we say.
Make us daft with your special lights. We trust the Key Grip.