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.
the last pavilion 