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.