poem: my mother has done everything

She is two-stepping in an Arizona bar

with some old-timer,

the walls hung with adobe, tassels, turquoise bracelets

for sale and the stereo bleeding out

early 90’s country-folk.

The Indians at the bar are leaning in, stoically awed

by the way this city girl

already has the West in her eyes.


She will not be here for long. She is just

passing through. But when she pays for her drink, and

cuts out the door in new cowboy boots,

the men turn to each other and say

Mark my words. She is already

an American.

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