Sunday, December 13, 2009

Barbara Cogswell


Two highways crossed in Kansas,
the site of a place we all called
“The Junction”. It smelled of last night’s
beer, and “Cocaine Blues” was kept

in an unmarked slot on the juke
box, a lot of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams
on there too. Ice cold Schlitz was served
to farm kids told to kick the bottle over

under the table, if the Sheriff pulled up.
Saturday nights a live band drew folks
from Basehor, Leavenworth, even Kansas City.
Then the boys gossiped, bragged and lied

in the parking lot: who scored last night,
how much hay got baled… one night, a fist fight
over some girl, tipsy on 3.2 beer, just watched
as her husband-to-be bloodied her boyfriend’s nose.

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