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Trout Lake Hotel
By Paul Cameron Brown
The walls don't lack sincerity, here,
or be accused of "ordinary,"
what with the bleached remains
of a carbon skull, a yellowing pike head
of uncertain girth, adder-like fangs
positioned like the Bear Head
gasping for the night air
one wall over or
the old pool table
that's seen as many games
as ghosts fly by or drinks downed
in the penumbra Shooters
flaming elixir stars,
a shooting gallery of exotica and potent portions -
crimson Garter, Pink Panties,
the men in this lounge live up to that
with cigarettes bullying the air, chortles,
one doesn't expect to see southern good ole boys
in the North Backwoods with no 'gators
or Biloxi Blues but a gallows to good intentions,
nonetheless.
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