parched–

hitching my roan,

old saloon,

hope they have whiskey

and a friendly bartender

they’s a card game in the corner

and, cross the way, a lady in a pretty dress

dirty glass, but I’m thirsty

leave the bottle, I says

bartnder sets it down

he don’t smile, but I reckon

he can see it in my face–

the horror I done seen

out in Buckskin Gulch–probably

in the newspapers by now–

all the bartender says is

“dusty from the trail, ain’t ya?”