Six a.m., 
horizon rolls out pale light 
across the bay,
a dock of busying vessels
and rusted cranes,
the solitary stanchion,
remnant of an old pier,
that stands in deep water
like a crutch 
without a cripple.

Men, women,
follow their forebears
out to the fishing grounds,
like parlaying 
with a fair-weather friend 
below and all around,
that will feed them cod and halibut,
but can whip up waves in an instant,
turn enemy, 
toss boats about like beach balls,
scuff the faces raw.  
 
Come twilight, 
weariness defaults
to scoffing down supper,
crawling into bed, 
or, elbows on a bar,
drinking away the smell of fish.
It’s the only life they know.
They’re the only ones who know it.
                        

I stop by after Tom's funeral.
The old bloodhound greets me at the door,
sniffs for the good in me
while I run my fingers
through his cheek folds.
He's not upset that I'm not his master.
Anything's better than silence.

This is where Tom lived.
And died in spirit,
even if a nearby hospital
was the scene of his last breath.

Only a chipped coffee cup
maintains his presence in the kitchen.
But the bedroom is fall of the man.
There's even a little of his late wife
in the undisturbed side of the king bed.

The music box on the dresser was hers.
The music it played was theirs.
I wind the key,
and a ballerina pirouettes
to the soft strains of "Swan Lake."

The headboard splits the air
like an oboe reed.
The ceiling flares
as if it's the bell
of a French horn.
Walls ring deep as violas.
Windows shine
with the thin bright cry of violin strings.
The score's complete
with the timpani of my footsteps
out the door.

The dog comes with me.
The furniture will follow at a later date.
The house is up for sale.
But not the lake.
And never the swans.
                        

At last, I’m out west.
So where are the cowboys?
There’s a guy in greasy overalls
working on a car.
And a woman 
in the grocery store
squeezing fruit 
to see what’s freshest.

But no sheriff
with a big shiny badge.
Just a real estate agent
dressed sports casual.
No wanted posters
for dangerous outlaws.
Only political propaganda
and ads for bake sales.

I’m ready to join a posse.
Not the Baptist church.
I’m itching to see
a Main Street showdown.
Not a band concert
in the park.

Where’s that smell of mesquite?
What about the tumbleweeds?
And the saloon?
I don’t mean bar.
I mean saloon…
with dancers and swing doors
and bad guys playing poker.

No rustlers.
No ambushes.
No cavalry.
No Apaches.
Just tattoo parlors, 2.99 specials,
trailer parks and used car lots. 

There is a wild west museum.
But I’m not really into ancient relics.