The fence is torn down, but a cattle gate remains:
true-life Old West fireflies outside a railroad bar.
Pioneer monuments, burlap sack frontier beauties,
antique shop postcards: in time you'll slip away silent...
clean... squared-up in a Wrangler coffin shirt and jeans.
Today's clouds cobble-up a storm for mountains
beyond Spokane. Another old wisdom tooth gone...
shattered on a dentist's glossy tray, your jaw swells
to meet darkness. You drive with brights, honk
at apricot-brown heifers... moonlight-dumb on gravel.
The Future Seemed Chandelier-Spectacular
Morning comes at you
like a sloganeering nun
in a Clint Eastwood movie...
desert radio jangle,
some furniture festival in town.
You carry all the ephemera
of seventy years...
smeared postcard postscripts.
Pockmarked moon through squinty eyes,
Peaches-the-Wolfhound wants to know:
when does she get the lapis-blue
birthday present leather collar?
On a grand scale of gnarled apple tree
to gloss-marble of gunfighter boot hill,
the flake-decay centerpiece would be
a Bat Masterson toupee up for auction.
Grotesque turn of tractor
and a leg is gone:
someone else's fact.
Wool clouds... a radio song
featuring high platform heels,
love gone to muscatel-sobs.
For you it's morning...
dryland wheat fields
at every blacktop