by James Koller
We did all this before.
“Every time we saw him,” she recalled,
“he was with a pregnant woman
of that same age.”
Once upon a time.
“Come again,” she drawled.
“I’ll do my best.”
Early morning on the high plains.
Dry cottonwoods shiver in the warm wind.
The rising sun North of East. My road
South of the sun.
But the road turns Northeast.
He tells me,
“She’s too much alone.”
The sun directly in front of me.
“Not a good time to be away.”
He said those very words, then
introduced me to that skinny Greek.
“She didn’t look skinny to me.”
“She don’t have that old time figure.”
“That what you mean by skinny?”
“Maybe the sun was in my eyes.”
We all try
to be articulate.
She did have a way about her.
Bell shaped flowers
move in the wind.
It’s the wind. Primes the pump.
Hey diddle diddle. We keep
“O Mama, can this be the end?”
We do what we do best.
The cows still on their knees.
Sometimes things don’t work out.
A woman of the same age.
“Getting wild,” he said.
“Are we done with all this?”
“Yah, we have talked about everything.”