12:20 a.m. - 2008-09-11
-
Donald R. Anderson
Water Like Dust
The roads tinged a red clay,
with many wagon wheels
broken fragments buried deep.
Rusty can lids,
tumbleweeds larger than the ones
you buy online at novelty shops,
old wooden wind-beaten shacks
that hold nothing but dust,
cobwebs, and the ghosts of
snake-skins and canteens with holes
torn as if lice had an alcohol addiction.
I can see that hat perches on the counter,
I know in my mind it's not bad luck,
but the way one relaxes
is by letting down one's guard.
There is no good without the poor,
and being poor is no way to live.
Taste the firewater,
breathe the dusty mountain trail
upcreek.
Think like a card player that
is forced to herd longhorn,
and walk with the spurs oiled silent.
Ten hours ago,
I would have walked in on a
couple of skunks making love in the
shade of the ghost town bar,
but now I just look at the shine
bleeding through in spots on the stools,
and think of abandoned love.
I think of abandoned lust,
with the emotions of eternity,
and the dark hollow ring
of the beauty you can't bring
unless you're truly sad,
truly sorry.
And I'm not.
At least not anymore.
