i had a little place down off sixth street
all swollen wood and tin
you could smell the river moving from there
but you couldn’t see it
unless you made your way
through the dead people
walking toward
clark’s embalming school
over on elm
the century had just turned on us
and we were due a war
he swaggered in on a black lace evening
tall as a yankee
but no less a cowboy for it
american mythology in his hat and spurs
i offered a bourbon bottle and glass
with one hand placed upon hip
“Where you from, stranger?”
“Athens.”
“Ohio, Georgia, or Greece?”
simultaneous smiles emerged
because we both knew the answer
and
where his boots would be resting that night