As he filled the jug
from the fresh, seeping spring
he thought about the girl in the skirt,
her lips wet with whiskey
her hands damp with want
her gray eyes moist
with dreams of faraway places.
They thought he was lonely
in the tar paper shack
with only the wind and weather
for company.
There was no electricity
no education
even in the 80’s.
Screaming Widow Peak couldn’t quite cast
a shadow long enough for cooling
on days the sagebrush curled
at the edges, trying to eject
itself from the ground
that was not quite soil, not quite rock.
The rattlesnakes didn’t stay to play.
He rode into town every once in awhile.
Kids found him odd,
adults thought him dull behind the eyes.
His blue roan ground-tied
outside Hardware Hank
as he purchased his meager
supplies: coffee, beans, flour.
He could kill his own meat back then.
He jerked most of it, so it would last,
the rest, stored deep in the dirt cellar out back.
The iron skillet
constantly on the fire
a mix of hopes
a gathering of memories.
They fenced around him,
keeping him in,
keeping him out.
The snow crunched under his boots.
Years later, he caught his arm
in an auger and went
to faraway places.