Poet's Korner

"Steed Stetson Has Voted"

As I sat in Doc’s saloon awaiting 

the results I couldn’t help but 

think neither candidate would 

be best for Salt Creek 

I stared into my third virgin 

martini and thought of the time 

I had to choose between 

sucking a damp bedroll 

or sipping a spittoon 

to stave off thirst 

If you ask me, the decision I made 

at my precinct earlier wasn’t much 
different 

Either way I felt I was lining 
the pockets of the cattle barons 

Clem was a breath of apolitical 

fresh air — he explained to 

the three or four haggard 

patrons that to abstain from 

voting as he had was still 

participating in the demi-cratic 

process 

At least that’s what I think 

he said—couldn’t hear too well 

over the confounding new strains 

of proto-contemporary ragtime 

fusion he was churning out 

on the tack keytar as he spoke 

I looked up from my glass to see 

Miss Roberta enter the establishment 

her downcast expression belied 
the cloying “I Voted” sash on her 

person 

We exchanged a wordless nod 

as she bellied up to the bar 

Doc poured us each a whipped 

cream-flavored vodka 

Miss Robert muttered something 

about the balloting booths 

cluttering up her school house 

and we downed the hatch 

The spirit was as over-distilled 

as the ubiquitous campaign 

literature, simplified to 

the point of obscenity 

What an insult to Salt Creek’s 

dozen or so intelligent folk 

After a few belts I found my hat, rose 

to my feet, and cinched up my chaps 

Doc said nothing as he polished a tumbler, his 
mustachioed face staring vacantly

I’d settle up next time

my credit was good with Doc—he knew 

I kept him in arm 
garters 

Time to hit the trail 

with the innumerable fine 

dirt particulates in the air 

There’s no need for polling 

places on the high plains

The only duly-elected town dog catcher 

is the turkey vulture 

circling eagerly above

--Steed Stetson