a man with soft skin over clenched jaws
stepped onto the captain’s deck
and at a great strained distance
could see a woman in spike heels
before walking into a fleshpot
or some kind of strip joint
its white walls lying
in broad daylight
he felt that urge up inside
his leg because even at a distance
the woman looked braless
arms crossed, cigarette burning,
her thoughts drifting along,
her stares at nothing but
the empty evening breaking
he tapped the cutlass
hanging at his side and
felt more than he was,
having just at that moment
been relieved of his post
by a bewildered and angry
captain who owned
land in montana
and longed to leave the
big missouri river
and his mannerly wife
and her mechanical love
the man at the deck
embarked once in port
upon over-the-land travels,
a hurricane lamp and sleeproll
in hand and over the back
he passed through a patch
of brambles to make his way
up the bank, stopped to disbud
a rose of sharon because it
rubbed against his waist
right at arm’s length
and made his way into the
wooden, gassy juke joint where,
at mid-day, no thing stirred
but the old dame behind the
bar studying him and his
impressive sword, a bearing
unlike the disjointed derelicts
and dock hands usual.
the levy’s dry as a bone, she
croaked. so if you’re here to
ask for irrigation out to your
country cousin, you can
forget it. better you just go
to the assessor’s office.
‘quarrel ain’t with you, ma’am.
i’m here to talk with that
perty lady just come walkin’
in here a short bit ago.
the bar maid studied him.
helen, she summoned
her voice scratched with
authority.
a woman came into the
room from behind drapes
and she stumbled or
walked unnaturally; either
way, i liked her and all
i was doing was sipping
the tail end of a whiskey
sour.
ma’am, the first mate stammered
and set down his lantern and
sleep roll.
ma’am, he began again.
i saws you from the ship i jest
left. and, uh, he mulled.
i was wondered if we might
get acquainted.
this ain’t that kind of
place, mister, she says, and
disappears behind the
curtain.
ma’am, he insists in return.
i ain’t askin’ to lay with you.
she reappeared, half
hanging in the curtain.
i’ve written some poems
and from my ship’s deck,
i saw a pretty woman and
was hoping i might render
them poems to somebody
might know what’s been in
my heart on lonely dark
nights up on the mizzou.
oh, she says, refreshed in
tone, and she walked
over, and had the dame
behind the bar bring the
two of them her best
sippin’ whiskey.
and from where i sat
the camper with the
killing sword and hurricane lamp
and sleep roll must have
had some kind of tender
heart.
because those two sat
at that, far beyond the
whiskey and laughed
and whispered and stared
at one another and i swear
to God they fell in love
that afternoon.
as i sat across the way
and sipped my drink and
marveled at the ways of
love.
