Time of lifting spiders

Time of lifting spiders on the garage door. Time of filling the Yard Machine with gasoline. Time of pulling the string. To Sartre everyone had a string to pull. I'm skeptical. Unsure of the "every," unsure of the pull. In lives so pulled. Time to pull becomes time to push. Time of waist-high weeds along the edges. Time of the neighbor's treacherous fence, jutting at us through his property-line-speak smoke screen. Time of know your rights. Time of swallowing allergen-induced post-nasal drips. Remember the time of action figures in exotic jungles of not extraordinarily tall grass. Remember the time of die-cast metal cavalry. Outlaws and marshals and Texas rangers. Sioux, Cheyenne, and Apache. Brown patio of the mid-western plains. Surreal fields of freshly mowed grass. Father and son animating cowboys and Indians. Cowboys and Indians meeting their demise by the roll of the dice. Sgt. Pete Stone fires at Painted Horse. Storm Eagle wings an axe at Wes Bonner, the great scout. Rain Hat positions his rifle from behind a petrified tree, taking aim at "Shotgun" Crawford. Remember the names, remember the time. Worlds we leave behind. But who's that in the make-shift saloon behind the walls of Fort Larame? G . . . W . . . Bush. Don't remember him.