Old man Farley butts his eight
eighty year old teeth
against a bone
of deep fat fried chicken.
There are men at Eddy's Corner
who used to share 
whisky nights with Charlie Russell
and wake alone on the crop-dusted hill.
They smoke too much and shot too many guns. Nothing
burns their throats anymore. Sign
posts rattle as wet clouds travel
from the Judith Mountains like the kisses of cattle.
Now rain and tears muss Hutterite Dave's nose,
yet, minutes ago, the clouds above were sweet potatoes
at the Taylor Ranch. The grain silos look like missiles,
and that's what's so funny, of course:
Underground is where they keep the Minuteman
Missiles, square in the chest of Montana.
Just leave the peas raw, dear, and the chicken pink inside
says Phyllis, there's always a chance they might get cooked.