Everyday Wyoming, Photography, Poetry, Uncategorized

He couldn’t find his Mustang, but he knew

it was somewhere in that parking lot, and we stumbled

from row to row, two red-faced kids

who picked each other up in a honky-tonk crowd.

mustang wp

He couldn’t find his Mustang, but he found my hand

and pressed it to his thigh, saying,

“This here’s where my leg got tore on bob-wire;

this here’s where my brother cut me.”

 

 

 

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Poetry Day / The Mustang

Aside