Dry, sandy plain that used to be
Elysian fields of hops, barley. No
farms since the drought. Homesteaders,
even, have gone. Most of them, anyway.
Nothing grows here except base emotions.
Saloon in what used to be town waters those
ever too well. Every mother's fool who still
lives here has a tab. And uses it. Come
evening, you see them all lined up,
scotch, rye, bourbon, and the card games
swallow three years' wages in a hand.
Ugly town. Ugly world. Only bright spot
Nellie, middle-aged good-time gal with the finest
derriere this side of Colorado. She does
enliven the place. Caused more marital tension
round here than even old Compton's prize heifer.
That there was a story. Bout ten years back, old
Hill, he says he's in love with that gal.
End of his marriage, you can bet. We went
next morning down to Compton's, and there,
I swear, there's Tim Hill, stone dead,
gash in his noggin shaped like Elsie's
hoof, and we just couldn't help but laugh.
This place ain't all that bad, sometimes.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.
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