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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