Country Bar in a One-Street Town


'come on in, if you will,
stranger, we're all here'

three ranchers pushing
Coors, the TV their solace

'I'm Mack, tend the bar
wipe up spills, rinse
glasses, sigh and nod

when Billy here enters
or leaves
(he's a lost cause)'

flip channels— hope
you like baseball
or Jeopardy

'you must be a stranger
round these parts,
never seen you before--
just passing through?'

'these are all the regulars
here, we keep each other
company'

'got hot dogs I can
microwave, the pool
table's warped, juke
box busted'

'but there's a deck 
of cards and Charlie
here will tell you
about his bum knee'

'we heard it all before--
take a seat, what'll it be?'

oh, that sign— “hippies
go to the back door”?

'we put that up as a joke
you know around here
we take cows seriously'

'too bad there ain't been
no rain this past year--
where was you from?'

Working at 5 AM


punctually he starts up the diesel
pulling cattle cars and is on the road
early, the single paved County Route 1,
out to far ranches ready to load the thin 
cows and calves into the hot metal
bins— they kick and bawl but then
settle down— he heads over the pass

his live cargo packed with heaving
sweaty sides together, staring through
the bars with bulging eyes, fear
registered with thirst, an hour
to the high grazing, a little green grass
left, opens the gate, they rush down
the chute, shaking the dust out, run
toward pinons and sage.

He's back home for breakfast--
steak and eggs— washing the smell
of cows off his rough hands
before he stomps his boots, sits
in prayer, then falls to his rare beef.

Society of Lawtonville


population 6537: working-age men
loiter on Friday at 10 AM on the boulder
planted in front of the Chevron station
along the main highway, drinking beer 
from paper bags or blue Gatorade, loudly 
gossiping, staring at each passing truck, 
calling out to the drivers, laughing
scratching dirty beards, in stained
sweatshirts and Carhartt work boots,
slapping each other on the back hard

across the road is the BJ Steakhouse
and laundromat, very convenient to eat
and wash those work clothes, get your
thick rib-eye cooked rare, watch soapy
water slosh around the heavy-duty
washers, seven pounds maximum load,
(once I saw purses on a rack in a bakery)

the cashier interrupts his conversation
with his friend enough to give me change,
“yep, she should be gettin' home any day”,
wistfully, a sweetheart, a mother, while
the driver of the logging truck idling outside
buys his load of snacks— chitlins, Arizona
iced tea, snickers, caramel corn, waves
to his buddies on the rock as he leaves, 
guns the truck pulling out, gears grinding.