Bruce Morton
Cheyenne
That night in Cheyenne
Seemed like it was
Capitol punishment.
On the road the thrums
Of road noise and pangs
Of hunger brought us
Oblivious to Days and drought
Of rooms to be had. So we
Called it a day at Cheyenne.
A vintage 1930s motel
With no air conditioner
To condition July heat.
Windows stuck wide open
No screens to deter fly-by
Flies drawn to the flutter
Of chintzy chintz worn
To cheese-cloth tatter.
To us it didn’t matter. It was
A father and son camp-in.
The adventure of crossing
Kansas and eastern Colorado
Had beaten us, exhausted us.
We slept sound in the silence
Of the antique radiator that
Was hoarding its hollow bangs
For the coming winter when
The cold wind would unswell
Windows and kill flies that will
Greet guests the next July.
Elegy for a Dying Town
It is easy to pity the town, but with
Or without it, it is not pretty to watch
For those who have lived in the city.
Shelves go unstocked, then doors lock.
Store fronts and stares are empty.
Don’t-look-at-us faces sullen, vacant
Dares. Their eyes gone dark like
The defrocked priest. Parishioners
Come no more to shop for salvation
Or to redeem sin coupons. A patina
Of dust covers curb and sill, vestments
Of neglect, disrepair, and despair.
A few beer joints endure, holding on
For communion, a nightly wake,
A dim-lit main street an open coffin.
A shot and a beer suffice for last rites.
Memorial Service
So, what do you say now
That you cannot speak?
When everyone has said
Their piece about you?
The dead, you know, do speak
Volumes, but say it silently,
So soft you cannot hear it.
Yet, it gets into your head
Like the proverbial worm.
Simply tell is like it was, or is.
Common prayer from the Book
Of Common Prayer. Beatitudes
Drone, blessed this and blessed that,
But loss is loss and gone is gone.
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, recently in Ibbetson Steet, London Grip, 433, Sheila-Na-Gig, and ONE ART. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.
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