by Frank Stanford
A guy comes walking out of the garden
Playing Dark Eyes on the accordian.
We’re sitting on the porch,
Drinking and spitting, lying.
We shut our eyes, snap our fingers.
Dewhurst goes out to his truck
Like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing
And brings back three-half-pints.
A little whirlwind occurs in the road,
Carrying dust away like a pail of water.
We’re drinking serious now, and O.Z.
Wants to break in the store for some head cheese,
But the others won’t let him.
Everybody laughs, dances.
The crossroads are all quiet
Except for the little man on the accordian.
Things are dying down, the moon spills its water.
Dewhurst says he smells rain.
O.Z. says if it rains he’ll still make a crop.
We wait there all night, looking for rain.
We haven’t been to sleep, so the blue lizards
On the side of the white porch
Lose their tails when we try to dream.
The man playing the music looks at us,
Noticing what we’re up to. He backs off,
Holding up his hands in front, smiling,
Shaking his head, but before he gets half way
Down the road that O.Z. shoots him in the belly.
All summer his accordian rotted in the ditch,
Like an armadillo turning into a house payment.
Last updated January 08, 2015