Not black and white cowboy songs
from New York City, I preferred
Cousin Herb’s Tradin’ Post
live from Bakersfield: steel guitar
and the nasal whine of harmonizing
men at work in dusty fields
between Saturday night fights
over a girl everyone knew
in every Valley town with a bar—
almost every intersection had one.
Cultivated in between, fertile
dirt for boys wanting to become
something other than a butcher
or baker, something bigger
and better than a job in town.
Still searching dreams,
I keep running into myself
on this same old ground.
drycrikjournal 