Texas Jack’s

I entered Texas Jack’s
And pulled up a stool
Gazed at the menu
As is the rule.

The ranch hands all chattered
Lively and loud
Hats on their heads
Cocky and proud.

There are dives like this
All across Texas
Cursed by God
And the Devil’s hexes.

This place served fire chili
And homemade sausage
And judging by the smell
They were sending a message.

But being new here
I ordered the house brand
And settled in
To make my last stand.

The counter guy slid
Wax paper before me
Plopped down the sausage
And a dollop of chili.

"The knife and fork," he said
"Are chained by your side
And if someone told you
I’d buss your mess, Pard, they lied.

I’ll bring out a bucket
Of hot water and soap.
It’s your job to wash up.
If you figure I’ll do it. Nope."

So I sat there eating my supper
And drank a lukewarm 7 Up.
And if you guess
I cleaned-up my mess. Yup.

If you’re south of the Red River
And lookin’ for food
Stear clear of Texas Jack’s
And a waiter surly and rude.

But I’m here to tell ya
What’s even worse
Is that their sausage and chili
Is the Devil’s own curse!

I can’t yet sit my pony
Nor ride as I ought
‘Cause that sausage and chili
Still gives me the trots!

Ghosts

I see your smile
After years
Time times time
Your image
Never fades.
It’s indelible on my memory
Your wispy smile
Knowing gaze seeing into my mind
My thoughts.

I believe in ghosts.

You rattle around
In the attic
Of my heart
All the time.

I hear your footsteps
At the foot of the bed
Catch your form
Your spectral image
At the corner of my eye
Smell the fragrance
Of your perfume.
Even your taste lingers
On my tongue.

I believe in ghosts.

These chains binding me
Were forged
In the hottest furnace
And I will never
Be released.
The links of remembered passion
Carve into the bone
And marrow of my heart.

You will haunt me forever
And I welcome it.

I believe in ghosts.

Katie*

I remember you
Katie.
You were a beautiful woman
With a fresh
Pink face
Blond hair
And delicate figure.

I’ll never understand why
Our bodies
Declare war on us
And we die.

And you’re not here
To tell me
Katie.

I remember those trips
To your house.
Every time I saw you
There was a little less
To see.

Your long blond hair
Fell out
And you took to wearing
A bright pink scarf.
Even in it you were beautiful.

I remember your soft voice
Telling me
All would be well
You were sure
You said
You had faith
You said.

But you’re gone
Katie
And all that’s left
Those who loved you
Is a warm space
Just your size.

If I could kill
What killed you
Katie
There would be no place
It may hide.

But for all the killer in me
Katie
I can’t bring to justice
What took you.

* a real woman, a real name, and a real death

Not Really Here

I’m sitting at a
Sidewalk café
A glass of claret
Before me
Resting on a white table cloth
Its edges lifting in the breeze
Off the Seine.

The late afternoon sun
Filters through
High clouds
As I watch pretty girls
Walk by
Their laughter ringing
From ancient shop walls.

A siren screams
And, returned to my senses
I am back in the small office
That encases me
Like a mausoleum.
The October wind kicks
Dust into the air
At the grassless patch
By the bus stop
Beyond my window.

I am not really here
I keep telling myself.
I am in Paris.
I am
I am
Simply not here.

I think of calling your number.
Let’s get out of here
I’d say.
Let’s go to Paris.
Let’s go anywhere
But let’s leave here.

I’ll never call
Because you’d never go.
When the sun rises on Paris
It’ll not shine on me.
Someone else will drink the wine
Watch the pretty girls
Smile in the Parisian light.

I place your number back in my wallet
And force my attention
Back upon
The business at hand.

Empty Arms

My arms are so empty, dear.
Yet I feel your warmth
Beneath my fingertips
Hear your gentle sighs
In my ears
Though years fall away
Like autumn leaves.

I wonder
Do you feel as I?
Sometimes your name
Leaks from my lips
Into the slipstream
And it seems so natural
As though you may answer.

Have you ever spoken my name
Into the dark
Hoping for a reply
An answer in the night?

Last night I saw a woman
Looking much like you.
As we passed in the street
I nearly looked back
But stopped
Afraid I may call out
Your name
And embarrass myself.

I look for you
In every corner shop
Down the avenues
In taxicabs and cars passing.
I wonder
Do you look for me, too?

Are your arms as empty
As mine?

The Old Soldier

The old soldier wept
Sixty years late
For the boy he killed
Outside a burning French
Farmhouse.

I commanded him to stop
The old soldier said
As the boy pushed
A motorcycle
Empty of fuel.

That damned burning house
The old soldier said.
All that noise and crackling.
The boy just kept coming.
Halt!
The old soldier said twice.

No help for it.
And the boy pushing the
Dry motorcycle died
In the lane.

Sixty years!
The old soldier said
And every night I see him
Every night begging him
To stop.

Sixty years is a long nightmare.

The old soldier is now dead
Gone the way of all flesh.
But I am become
The custodian of his nightmare.
I cannot escape the scene
The flames
The boy with the dry motorcycle
Wearing a German uniform
With a machinegun
Strapped across his chest.

Just a boy
My father said.
He was just a boy
And I killed him.

I wonder
Have they yet met
In those Elysian fields
That know
No war?

The Strangest Dream

Last night I had the strangest dream.

The sun scorched my shoulders
And dust choked my throat.
Hot anger surged my veins
And I had murder in my heart.

The weight of a new Colt settled on my hip.
My fingers clenched and relaxed
Clenched and relaxed
Waiting for my foe
To make his appearance.

Time can be as lead
Waiting to die.

I put the sun behind me
To blaze the eyes of the man
I hoped to kill.

Mama said “Don’t go, son.
Let it rest boy.”
But some things are hard to let go.

I waited in the dusty street.
Marked for
A corpse or a legend.
Soon and very soon
I would be one
Or the other.
But legend it was for me
I was sure.

Last night I had the strangest dream.

Pushing through the swinging doors
Of a hard scramble saloon he came
Eyes on me at his first step.
He was heeled with a tie-down holster
And a Remington with ivory grips
The gold of a watch chain
Flashing from his vest.

We faced off not fifteen feet apart
And he seemed not as scared as me.
In fact he seemed bored.

“Go on home boy,” said he
Even as he slapped leather.

How bright the sun is
When you stare right at it
And how dusty the streets
With all that pooling blood.
From where did it all come?
Is dying really so painless
And easy?
And what will mama do now?

Last night I had the strangest dream.