In Farmington, New Mexico.
And drank double shots of bourbon
                         backed with beer.
My long hair was tucked up under a cap
I’d left the earring in the car.

Two cowboys did horseplay

                         by the pool tables,
A waitress asked us
                         where are you from?
a country-and-western band began to play
“We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”
And with the next song,
                         a couple began to dance.

They held each other like in High School dances

                         in the fifties;
I recalled when I worked in the woods
                         and the bars of Madras, Oregon.
That short-haired joy and roughness—
                         America—your stupidity.
I could almost love you again.
We left—onto the freeway shoulders—
                         under the tough old stars—
In the shadow of bluffs
                         I came back to myself,
To the real work, to
                         “What is to be done.”