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Montana absolution, of a kind
Seattle fled, for good, I skim Missoula,
let Wisdom wait one more day,
on megrim drive to Bannack,
ghost-town shacks all sagged-in, gray.
Here, Sheriff Plummer hid in sage,
ambushed miners headed home,
stole their gold. He stashed loot,
ambled back, downed drinks with the men,
seduced their wives. Like our crooked leader,
loved himself too much. Town folks
found the truth, wouldn’t trade his life
for promised map to cache, hanged him
by Grasshopper Creek. I can learn from this —
pan for luck, find glittering dreams,
with enough whiskey become worthy,
even in my eyes. On a full moon, discover
some right way back. Or not.
Bannack’s one street still weaves with ruts,
chokes on dusk, flees each day both ways
at dusk. Total absolution, they say,
is rare, may lie only in the leaving.
I’ll be a long time leaving lies. |
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 Bannack buildings
by Tim Pilgrim
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