I used to sit and watch them drink
the prairie had sculpted lines in their faces
that told tales of time and its erosion
and how every dry wind
became the sculptors chisel
their dirt stories resurfaced as a
prelude to old scars and pain
and some of the things I heard… hurt
they kept pushing money across the bar
and drank more than whiskey back
I order another for my old friend and I
he drinks his quickly as if it were something precious
then he tells me an old ***** thirties story
he heard in the old bar
the one that stood here before this one
he talked until the wind outside made him mad again