into that good night
He says, she named me Dylan Thomas
Really, he tells me, it’s all because of her
and how she dragged me through Texas
all over up Nevada
through the desert heat.
her own little Dylan Thomas sweated outside truckstops
while she picked up 12packs of Tecate
and boxes of Entenmann’s
and cans of pinto beans
and gassed up her honest to goddamn El Camino
like she was wild Texas Hollywood for real.
then they jetted on through Utah
and down the four corners
under an empty turquoise sky
and there was red clay everywhere
even started growin in her little Bob Dylan’s hair
as she fed him pretzel snacks and James Joyce.
And they settled somewhere south of Durango
where the red clay of the Animas River baptized him
and he found litters of stray kittens
and ate crab apples with his face puckered up
and fed himself Ginsberg
and disagreed with Hemingway until he met Jake Barnes under an old silver birch.
When he sleeps finally in my red sheets
after too much cerveza
and pen stains on his hands and mouth,
I sometimes brush clay from his hair and his beard
and wait for him to slide gently into that tiny death and
finally in my everlasting solitude reading