Here You Are
Half-shingled roof, raggedy-quilt, fire-hazard cheap
motel: shadows of amber light through thin curtains.
A guy comes up to me in a Glenwood Springs bar
in a Doc Holliday frock coat,
whispers, Your creator misses you.
He's bearing The Book of Mormon.
Feeling like a kid, I keep memory
of all the places
where it's rained on my hunger.
There was that lousy Craig, Colorado,
hotel with punched-out hallway video cameras.
And, oh boy, second hand charity ball gowns
on blunder-pregnant, fleshed-out girls
in Nevada City, their boys in fake Stetsons.
A pole dancer in North Platte says she believes
in rebound love, misunderstood schoolyard tenderness.
A hand-trembling stranger in an Elko bar leans on his walker,
On the right horse, it can take all night to cross a field.
Ontario, Lime, Baker City: a waitress brags she can be
anything on the menu, from chicken fried steak
to a chocolate milk shake dripping real slow... all over me.
A guy with a Will Smile For Food sign in Moses Lake
takes five bucks from me, asks if I notice America's decline,
chuckles, admits, My last girlfriend caught fleas.
I bring little darlin' a spray of red roses. An hour later
we sit silent, eat cubed pears over cheeseburgers,
listen to a southwest wind rattle our front windows.