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Rico dropped by
a new lover
tattooed on his forearm
making five mementos
and a bottle of blue black ink.
He offered owl feathers to trade,
said he shot the bird himself.
The turquoise he wanted to swap was expendable,
owl feathers are not.
Rico didn’t hang around long
speeding off on his Harley,
thirsty leaves scattering.
The corner telephone pole didn’t blink
when Rico crashed it-
orange fire
sirens
screams
gasoline
burning owl feathers.
Bisbee, AZ
July 6, 1979
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