Crossing the Rez
for Joy and Sue
I was hitching a ride toward twilight
southeast of Billings, middle of November,
when a pickup let me toss my gear in back.
I climbed up into the cab boozy with two old boys,
Country Western AM blaring sad songs of love.
The driver's sidekick cackled "Cold enough out there
to chrome a bobcat's balls." He hoisted a pint
of Jack, black, shoved it into my chapped hands.
It nearly thawed my tongue as they both jawboned
down the road, pointing out into the blue dark
toward Custer's Last Stand. "Never trust no Injun,
bud, no matter how cold it gits," they soberly
advised, shaking their heads and slowing down,
dropping me off there smack on the Rez at sunset.
And there I stood the best part of a bad hour
until along came the first car that stopped,
a rumpled one-eyed station wagon, front bumper
dangling, muffler skidding ice-glazed blacktop
just like a kid's sparkler in the dark.
"Hop in, par'ner,"
and in I hopped, stiff with cold, duffle on my lap,
all the wide dark faces, in front and back,
flat and friendly as old Hank Williams
carried on about good love gone bad again
from a scratchy speaker loose on the dash.
One popped the top on a Bud for me as gradually
we picked up speed, tranny wailing like a wolf,
everybody howling themselves into Hank's fix,
off-key and flat, while we hurtled through
the dark in a one-eyed comet.
"Where you headed?"
I answered "Sheridan." He nodded, smiled.
"Thing is, par'ner, we can't take you there.
Off-rez cops, they catch us in this heap,
hey, it's bail-time in the Rockies. When
we drop you at Wyola, just
remember this: Cold as your ass gets
don't park it in no cowboy pickup,
you'll do just fine. And do say howdy
for us In'dins to all the pretty girls
you meet on down the line."
