I was so glad to be living in my own house again,
glad for a few rooms to wander through, a place to
sprawl
outside the gaze of landlords,
that I walked all night from room to room,
onto the deck, into the yard, exploring
my pond of ivy, shadows of maple and dogwood.
I settled, finally, in the striped chair of the study
as a blue skeletal daybreak leaked like bar light
through the curtains
and brought back a bar in Billings, Montana
My wife danced there once with a woman in khakis,
then followed her into the parking lot,
smoking, dizzy in the dry wind, and sat down on a
tailgate
to watch the clear stars circling the mountains.
That was happiness, as confident as a saint,
or a school girl, or some cowboy off the ranch in
Rygate
who’s driven into town for a Legion Hall dance,
some slicked-up kid with scuffs on his boots,
smart enough and handsome, a hard worker
who still believes in virtue,
and knows the value of a dependable truck.
Homebuyer
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