floating down the Flathead, belly up,
empty whiskey glass in hand.
It's over 30 years since Welch, J.D. Reed
and Dick fished the river out
then stopped to drink this bar out too.
Window signs still shine Budwiser red,
reflect the road at Flathead's edge --
Hugo would approve: Blacktop whooshing past,
new, wide as headstones
poets threw empty whiskey bottles at,
lonely highway to Missoula,
lined by crosses hung with lilies
sagging plastic in the ditch --
all announcing another pilgrim nearly blessed
but no fish, just death -- same destination
Hugo took binge drinking trips toward.
Even cattails here drown Flathead brown.
The redhead who pours Van Winkle
comes straight from Welch's poem, eyes swollen
from regret, or hate, because she never took
the road to Paradise or the coast.
Maybe river water grabbed her soul,
said don't go, stay, emulate Richie Gray,
Dixon's drunk who went insane, pounded
on the door, downed shotgun blast,
matched Flathead brown with red.
I'm not Montanan anymore, own no guns,
don't paint seatbelts on my shirt
to avoid the law, tell myself Hugo drinks
with Richie down the road, Welch's spirit
floats on wind in France, skims the Rhone
at dawn. Reed probably drinks alone,
knows this bar sits closed most the time,
graveyard quiet, watching Flathead debris
sulk by. Three bourbons, two short of Hugo,
drown bad memories first. The rest
go under later. I begin to slur my poets,
hope I can drive the redhead crazy.
But she hangs back like death.
Serving writers is never easy.