There's nothing quite like sprinkling salt
on broiled road kill, popping open a chilled
can of Guinness. You can't explain the bullet holes
in the truck's rusty tailgate. Sometimes you wake up in a ditch.
You can't explain the beauty of the prison sky over Ely
or that girl strolling by in tight faded-black
Wranglers and a purple wild rag string-strap top.
It feels like noon: a bowl of barley 'n' beef stew
and baby stomping the house in coyote hide slippers.
There are flies in God's long-empty eye sockets.
Rough, heavy chairs from Mexico, otter-brown
corduroy curtains, photo's of Apache prisoners in Florida:
baby's naked, reading the Sunday paper, apple-bread
crumbs on her breasts... and she hardly notices
your lips gliding the skin of her sweet thigh.