A wide set of severed longhorns
brims the length of the bar’s mirror.
Lords over the patron’s windy bull.
Challenges, across the room,
those lively neon lit beer brand
proclamations.
Pictures and brass trophies brag on
Wyoming’s 8-Ball team champions
and local drag racing heroes-
glories that trick-out the scene,
illuminated by the bar’s lights,
they dandy up the dimpled
wood tables and scarred chairs.
Safe and warm, settle in.
The scent of stale brews wafts,
smoke pulses up like Indian signals
scattered along the bar; exhales
from the oil-field crew, an unfettered gal
and an old timer. It trails away
above the murmurs and guffaws,
while outside shovelfuls pelt
against the Rainbow’s window-
April’s sleet.
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