EAST OF EL PASO
errol miller
A few houses with goats
the damp chill of early winter
having lost that ordinary feeling
storing laughter in a boot
too many nights in cross-town bars
creeping into Santa Fe at night
expecting saints and angels and madonnas
finding curds and whey
it is the way of the world:
limbo for a while, then
down through the earth’s machinery
to old Hispanic prisons
look at the legends transfixed
Shriners and farmers and little ladies
from Bardstown painted purple
half-truths and all-around lies
“listen,” someone says, “to the silence”
and of course the horses shudder
professional riders for Billy Bob’s
dismounting until their fever dries
clustering together in La America Pawnshop
it is 1884 and 1939 and 1957 and 1986
a moll with platted hair wearing sneakers
obscure Anglos in white cotton robes
composing podium music
solemn together in anxiety
in the distance a great humped bridge
muddy fish and slow lines of motor cars
Spanish ice cream and green files
dogs barking and festering
leaving behind motels and air conditioning
forgetting steamy morning coffee
that strange longing for home
which doesn’t exist
in the crossbreed country
along the river
on the way to another Republic.
