lacquered in rusting
moon-
stranger staggers into
swamp gut
saloon
and cocks his lips
at a dancing
broom,
feathers too frayed to
salvage such
room.
ballerina frets
her best
come the end may
amount to
less
than a puddle of dribble
in last call
spittoon-
a hope-wrenching notion
however untrue.
hands in the garden 