Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), September 2005. Published in my books If I Could Be the Stone and Wings of the Gray Moon.
Kitsch Construction, Regina, Jemez, 1968
October has that
juicy dawn cold
the mountains like to keep to themselves.
The aspens are flaring like a wick losing oil.
John quips to his brother
who’s not ramming the posthole digger
hard as he can
and who’s just come off his honeymoon,
“Too much pussy, Dave.”
“Too much work” Dave comes back.
“Not enough pussy.”
My arms are memorizing these plunges
for the first time
and already long to forget.
John’s burnt about having to get this done
with a soft city kid,
his lazyass sibling
and a fourth crew who hasn’t even shown yet,
who’ll shatter into the bunkhouse tonight
after the mountains are ink,
whiskeyed off the vertical,
and ask directions to whatever food I’ve got,
rummage thru PopTarts and scowl
“What is this shit.”
The aspens will expect me to quit in the morning.
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