Rising, surprising,
from Arizona’s dry palette,
Jerome is still clinging
to the side of its hill,
its roads steeply climbing
and lined with the houses
and shops built by miners
long since moved on,
where Slim Chance & Friends
are pickin’ nights at The Palace
drinkin’ watered down high balls
in tall, smoky rooms,
where mornings, the locals
are gathered at Macey’s
downing coffee and pies
and the talk of the town,
where Dede won’t stay
in hotels rumored haunted,
where Tracy, the potter,
makes up his spare rooms,
where Still Life With Woodpecker’s
on the shelf in the hallway
signed by Tom Robbins,
still wishing “Good Luck”.
Previously Published in Wish You Were Here: A Poetry and Prose Anthology by Old Mountain Press