R . T .   C a s t l e b e r r y

D r e a m i n g   L i k e   E t t a   P l a c e

 

You dream the promises of South America like flowers—

dime novel sins left at the border,

the gunbelt kept rolled in a suitcase.

The good days are the town days.

Neither man is on the trail.

At the Café Libros,

you’re re-reading Tom Sawyer to Sundance.

Butch is writing his memoirs

and he’s gone up the street 

for pen and ink and more paper.

Carnivale is in a month

and you’re all taking the steamer to Rio.