and my wife walks out and says, “don’t start him

too early, it leads to trouble.”

I slam the drink down, look at the grandfather, ask,

“how about another just like that last one?”

my wife walks away.

the afternoon winds down as I sit drinking with gramps

and then gramps falls asleep in his chair and I help

myself to more.

I sit with the setting sun in my eyes and it feels

good.

after a while I walk into the yard and there’s an

Indian.

I sit on the ground and watch him build a

chicken coop.

after a while I ask him, “want a drink?”

he says no.

a no-fun guy.

I walk back into the house.

grandpop is still asleep.

grandma still has her migraine.

I walk through the house.

I walk back to the bedroom.

my wife is standing there.

“you son-of-a-bitch,” she says.

“of course,” I say.

I flop down on the bed, look up at the

ceiling.

among the cracks I make out an angel, a goat and a

lion.

my wife walks out of the room.

I wonder what they pay the Indian.

not much: room, board, a pot to piss

in.

I decide to sleep.

maybe later that night things would look

better.

city boy

I stopped in Wyoming to drink in a bar

in Cheyenne.

maybe I looked Los Angeles.

one guy at the bar asked another,

“you wearin’ boots?”

and the other guy answered,

“yeah, I’m wearin’ boots.”

I was sitting between them and

they talked around me.

“I don’t think you’re wearin’ boots,”

the first guy said.

“well, I am,” the other guy answered.

then it got quiet and they just looked at

each other.

I took a hit of my beer bottle,

set it down.

“nobody asked me,” I said, “but

I’m going to tell you anyhow.

I’ve never worn boots and I hope that I

go to my grave never wearing

boots.”

“maybe that can be arranged,”

said the first guy.

“that’s possible,” I said, “but who’s

going to arrange it?”

“oh, that won’t be any problem,”

said the first guy.

“it’s at least going to cause some kind

of a problem, don’t you think?” I said.

“no, not much.”

“well, maybe not, but I am kind of

curious. who’s going to do the

arranging? you?”

“maybe.”

“you’re going to let me wonder,

huh?”

“yep.”

“well, while I’m wondering, I think I’ll

have a drink of whiskey.

hey, bartender!”

this big guy came ambling down.

“yeah?”

“will you please pour me a shot of

whiskey to wonder over?”

he ambled off to get it.

it got quiet in there.

my whiskey came ambling back.

I slammed it down.

“I kind of like this town,” I said, “I think

I’ll stay awhile.”

“maybe,” said the guy who had been

doing all the talking.

“you’re full of maybies,” I said.