The Res

I show Juan what lebanese
red's about; we grin, singing
Tammy twang, D-I-V-O-R-C-E
and play eight-ball in this limbo,
rumdum tavern. Juan
drinks everything I set before him.

The Man's got a sign,
"Do Not Ride On Rims."
Flat tire, strip the rubber;
drive the wheels. He shrugs,
"Lakota Iuskinya Upo?"
Chief don't drink here.

Wasichu, you want someone wasted?
No. Peyote for hash, my friend.
Juan talks about the trade
he learned in Nam. I buy another
shot and beer chaser.
A blue-eyed blood sticks his nose

up, yips how rich college kids
pay top dollar for the genuine article.
Call me Vihio, Whiskey Joe,
he says. Buy me one, he says.
I got a feedsack, full
in the back of my truck.

The ante's on the table. I think,
dump the hash
and profit.

The dried buttons
smell like rotting potatoes.
They look like horse turds.
Juan and Vihio laugh,
You never see pejuta?