Here's one.
I went to see how the West was won, at the sunshine theater.
Five years, old deep in a plush seat, lights turned off,
bright screen lit up with MGM roaring lion.
In front of me, a drunk Indian rose.
Cursed in his native tongue the Western violins,
and hurled his bag bottle of wine at the rocket roaring
to the moon.
His dark, ragged body, as if reading destruction,
convulsed with angry gestures at the screen.
And then ushers escorted him up the aisle.
And as he staggered past me, I heard his grieving sobs.
Red wine streaked, blue sky, and takeoff smoke
sizzled in cowboys' campfires.
Dripped down barbed wire tripped brave, daring scouts who
galloped off into Mesa buttes to speak peace with Apaches.
Horses slogged across prairies lush with wine streams.
And when the movie was over, I squinted
at the bright, sunny street outside,
looking for the main character.