She called from Sundance, Wyoming, and said the posse had forced her into obscene acts in the motel. Bob was dead. The horse kicked the man off his feet and the man rolled screaming in the dirt. The red-haired girl watched it all. I've proclaimed June Carter queen-of-song as she makes me tremble, tears form, chills come. I go to the tavern and drink. The father ran away and was found near a highway underpass near Fallon, Nevada, where he looked for shelter from the rain. My friend the poet is out there in the West being terrified, he wants to come home and eat well in New York City. Daddy is dead and late one night won't appear on the porch in his hunting clothes as I've long wanted him to. He's dead. |