alligator oak carved children’s table

set above this bunkhouse mesa,

draped with wet flannel shirts

potted plants and four beautiful women

nurtured by a dry desert wind

from out back

under the Gulch's scorching sun,

Bear’s knife jabs, blusters, and intimidates

with heated open air expressions:

“I love you baby…now come clean you rah rah!”

this quirky eccentric desert casa personifies the ultimate storehouse

where nothing's wasted,

where transitory creativity can get distracted

ridin past those open windows south

onto further canyon scorched brown sands

but here, there is no reason for his apostles to step into the light,

to disclose their inspirations, 

bestow their secret gifts

here, in this Brotherly Love restitched laundry, 

there is his family 

draping his walls with crayon giraffes and scorpions sketchings,

a clan who welcomes strangers stealing shelter from some grateful rain shower,

here lives a tribe of misfits (but a few angels), 

hearts with planted smiles and sketchbook watercolor portraits

all dug in for another unsettling September summer drought

(so Bear, put that knife away: if I had my way, nobody’s house would ever leak)

Zacateca’s Laundry, Bisbee

9/11/73