“At the Tavern,” “Slow Living,” and “Blessed is the Moon”
Late Tuesday afternoon dram
in dim light, against dark wood,
with the remains of the day’s sun
slipping through the open oak door.
Dog at my side, a single salesman
at the bar, compass tattoo on his
forearm, his head in a flight
of cider.
in dim light, against dark wood,
with the remains of the day’s sun
slipping through the open oak door.
Dog at my side, a single salesman
at the bar, compass tattoo on his
forearm, his head in a flight
of cider.
Desert Venus
From this distance, he’s not easy to see. Not with the naked eye. He’s old. I know that’s true. How old, I don’t know. He sits there on a beat-up couch on the porch, a big porch that wraps around part of the house and has screens on the sides to keep the bugs out. But it can’t do that too well if it’s just on the sides. I see him use his hand to swat away the eye gnats. They can be irritating late on a warm desert evening.