Why I Cannot Live in Great Falls
It’s not the leather-smelling shelves at Hoglund’s
or the boots I haven’t learned to walk in.
Not the some-score bottles of Irish that would keep me
at the Celtic Cowboy like a place of work,
let alone the mermaids of the Sip ‘n Dip,
where staring would rightly brand me a creep
and where, no matter the motive,
aspiring mermen need not apply.
Not the young men in town from Malmstrom
who might later launch the world’s end.
Only the Big Sky, the short grass on thin soil,
and how little I could make of them.