from the back of a western pickup

photo by the artist

they bopped along

considerin each other’s bare feet,

sweet Sangre de Christo July sweat moist from hayin

scratchy Howlin Wolf tapes playin,

fresh cut alfalfa delicious 

liftin them both into the air

up there the Santa Fe Trail sky sprinkled with galaxies,

an extraterrestrial bebop expressionist lightshow movement,

and from somewhere Sonny commentin on the stillness of that night,

his giggled response sendin her long spidery fingers

deep inside her tight backpockets for a pack of Juicy Fruit

and soon the sugar hit

blues guitar becomin Pink Floyd's sonar sound,

and they sure nough got up to dance

so with another sunrise comin on,

Sonny and her guy kicked aside the sleeping bags

rolled up tight like their buckskin dreams,

jus bouncin along

from the back of a pickup

(recalling that summer in Bemidji, Minnesota, 1972)