In yesterday's post, I waxed romantic. Today, I offer another view in a poem I wrote a while back.
Where the Trail Ends
1955, Birmingham, AL
Some days I swaggered: a cowgirl
wielding silver six shooters;
others I crept: Princess Tiger Lily
waving a plastic tomahawk.
Either way I strummed my guitar,
sang "Happy Trails to You,"
proved myself one big chief of make-believe.
1962, Gallup, NM
"They all come to town Friday to get drunk.
It's a federal crime to hit an Indian in Gallup,"
the clerk said, "even if you can't help it.
Drive careful!" Later, in a wagon-wheel
bed, I dreamed about Navajos and slept
stiff in starched sheets under the stucco
peak of a tepee-shaped tourist cabin.
1989, 60 Minutes, CBS
Buzzing neon sneers a thin zipper of light
on Nathan Whitecloud lying in a gutter,
his head pillowed on the curb, face
upturned, mustache rimed with balls
of frozen blood, an empty liquor
bottle (Garden de Luxe) near his hand.
When the cops find him in the morning,
they call the coroner and say, "We got us
another popsicle,"then drive on.
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