A wig careens around the corner, bouncing like a tumbleweed
past the shack completely covered with stapled-on receipts
that flutter like feathers in the hot wind. The street is wide
and deserted and its curbs don’t meet, not even at the horizon,
defying the laws of perspective. We veer from curb to curb,
the clop of our boot heels echoing off the buildings.
From the screen door of the dime store, a tinny radio warbles
Sputnik pedal-steel twang. We laugh, mash our hats
on one another’s mullets. Our teeth flash like pearl buttons
scattered in the underbrush as we bullshit about gandit’s gold
in a flour sack heaved from the trestle. Our cattle
drowned in centimeters of river drool, our tractor tires
mended with patches cut from the neighbor’s whitewalls.
It’s okay, he hasn’t driven that beast in years.
Our blood will not speckle this dust. We skin
the pool table, use its hide for the bottoms of our souvenir
cow hoof paperweights that declare “Greetings from
the best little warehouse in Texas,” now closed, just like
the video stores we frequented in our youth.
We sit on a hump of fiberglass driftwood and chew
and debate where they manufacture the bulbs that light
the WalMart parking lot, eventually deciding on the Philippines
only because we lack the imagination to guess otherwise
even though we secretly wish the answer was the next town over.