Hand-rolled cigarettes
smoke hard
leaning against the cinderblocks
of a warehouse
hastily converted to a dancehall
tube amps soaring
at 3 AM.

The sky, yellow-pink
with the glow of vapor lamps
casts its sickly pallor
on tumbleweed
and import station wagons.

We were the last ones
to see his shiny face
wearing plaid shirts
pearl snap buttons
and western yokes.

There's just a little rock
in Little Rock.
Down on the waterfront
where the trolleys run
you won't find it.

Even still
Lake View and Heber Springs
are more than
mere dots on a map
of a dry and thirsty land.

Little girls frolic
we smoke some more
the harsh gray vapor
fills the lungs and
reminds us of our own mortality.

Drinking coffee
outside in the underground
Campfire singing
accordions and washboards
by a misty river
we burned the shale oil
way past midnight.