Peckinpah hummed to something on the radio –
“Name me somebody who’s not a parasite
and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him.”

Realizing his guest might not be a Dylan fan,
Sam turned the radio off, and looked for his tea cozy.
the one no one who knew him suspected he owned.

As he looked, other items in the small trailer –
he was on-set – got thrown or kicked to a hiding place.
Except for the magazine with his expected guest on the cover.

The Midwest, what could he ask about its influence?
It wasn’t the West, the real West, the open plain
where men, not committees, determined the future.

Just as he began to second-guess his invitation,
he heard a car nearing his temporary abode.
Passing the bathroom, he caught his face in the mirror

And grimaced at his nerves, and his sloppy napkin folds.
A car door shut, footsteps, then a knock -solid and manly –
that Sam answered. “Well, hello, Mr. Benton, glad you found us.”