Pint of Dickel: Four Short Poems
Just tossed oncoming caution into the burning barrel
like a move house private joke. At sixty-six,
the Lone Ranger wears silver-frame glasses.
An attic crawl-in closet: bullet boxes filled with pennies,
crusty old plastic milk replacer bottles,
sheathed corn knife, and a filthy saddle blanket.
Decades of knuckle-tattoo waitresses,
headlights shooting wicked at the eyes,
feeling okay with the prospect of heaven
if they gift mule-eared Nocona knee-high boots,
if my room has a hot tub with Bardot soaking,
if the singing is booze-merry with no fade-outs.
Decades of empty refrigerators in roadside ditches.
The blonde in the Best Western lobby was polished
in a metallic way, squeezed into a little red
blouse and blue leather short-short skirt.
She had an electric toothbrush buzzing
against beautifully capped front teeth.
No one said a word when she spit
greenish-blue toothpaste juice
on the fake marble floor.
Something in her room
needed to be swapped
had pissed its hands.
Dry rippling high grass in Nebraska,
lipstick kisses on a Vegas shower curtain,
broke-down dollar machine at a casino....
Limestone stars, Iowa bible colleges,
roadside wood crosses with plastic flowers:
the last time I flew, a sleek Delta stewardess,
scented vanilla-jasmine, laughed...
like we were going to score in Salt Lake.
She let me have bourbon at a dollar off
since I was bone-dry and out of ones.
Sixty-six, I hate rear view mirrors.