Thursday, March 15, 2012

Montana


Montana


If what I know of Montana was water, green
glacial run-off say,
it wouldn’t fill a juice glass,
a small one,
the kind you might find
at Pinky’s
in Livingston
having gotten
an early start
on your way to Glacier
by an indirect
route that takes
you past
Jim Harrison’s house
twice
a real flyer a heedless jump
off Turtle Head
Rock
into a chilly
Lake Superior,
a bracing yet
ill-considered act
for a man
your age, doomed
to regret
the path not taken a
day or two later on
Going To The Sun
road over
Logan Pass
convinced belatedly,
impotently,
a once in a lifetime opportunity had been squandered
back there in
Livingston,
nonplussed,
having passed
on the chance
to interrupt
a famously cranky
working
author and poet,
a Yooper with a shotgun
to keep
the rattlesnakes
at bay. 









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