Cows plod the old carpet
on the washed out roads;
coyotes circle night fire,
while locals earn our pockets
of pool hall quarters.

Eat, drink, and work
like a roughneck,
sleep like a bear,
talk like an oldtimer,
free as a bird,
but it’s pidgin freedom.

Years go by
for these days alive,
and still—

can’t get my fill.