Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Bindlestiffs, for Marie

I gave it all Walt Whitman had
to celebrate,
and took myself past the Great Divide:

where the sand looks red
because the sky tells it to
and Mars doesn't seem so foreign

where I ceased to sweat
so I wondered if I was southern anymore
and what that meant?

Almost too late, I met a woman
who burned:
earning her money like a Bedouin
with fainting goats reluctant to herd

she gathered us up anyway
whispering in our ears
fears she had no more
but still relatable to us.

Cautious, we rallied from four corners:
marveling at sandfalls,
and Atlantis being dammed,
or myths of legend peoples turned to stone
with a coyote's moan...

soaked in dust, we'd rode for days
playing musical chairs in-between
while I listened for the needle's pause
and my turn beside the shepherdess...

it came.
then it started again.

Mumford and Sons with an Italian's drawl...
with tales of serendipity's' call from a salt flat shore.
I could no more deny it
than my own southern speak

from my shotgun perspective
with that sun's last peak singing
celebrating all that we had become
in just three days, I wished:

That we were just getting started.

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