To a Wood Mountain Poet

Suknaski –

or can I call you Andy?

Not Andrew, but Andy as they still

call you back in Wood Mountain where

I first heard of you at the Ranch Rodeo Museum

But I could not buy your poetry there –

out of print.

Andy —

You were already a year dead by that time

though I didn’t know that of course,

knew nothing about you at all.

Just a name that I remembered.

It was still some time before I actually read your poems

and found I had known them all along, somehow.

Andy —

You were closer to all this history than I was,

could speak to them at the Trail’s End

where the blue smoke hung heavy and the

stream of bullshit flowed smooth.

But sprinkled in bullshit there is always truth

spoken outright, or to be gleaned.

Andy —

You could speak to Soparlo and Lecaine,

and the Rumanians with the Old Country still

on their tongues, and the Lakota who remembered

Sitting Bull as if they’d starved next to him themselves

that winter in 1879-80, when they had to eat the horses

and still starved anyway.

Suknaski —

 You could tell the stories of people and places

in a way I never can, for it was closer then, more immediate.

Now it recedes, further and further.

Wood Mountain is deader than you remember

though alive still.

I am left only with ghosts, summoned from your stanzas,

their whispers more faint with each passing year.

Your ghost knows I am poor, as I know it.

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