I wait for cherries
at the saloon, step away
from the slot machine to the three-deep bar.
Cowboys tip their hats, order me a Kessler.
Outside is thirty below,
cold that makes sound hard to carry,
chaos shut tight at night you know
is there, but never see coming.
The crew eats steak and chickpeas,
tables pushed together picnic-style,
talk of shot lists and story arcs.
I keep the books.
A crew member we call Cali,
throws me a look, gets up, walks toward me,
surfboard logo on his yellow Billabong tee,
face burnt red from Jack.
I can tell you his Malibu address, his weekly take,
the strange intimacy of our start-up paperwork,
though we’ve never said more than a few words.
Lord knows we’ve never touched.
The gust come off his eyes first—
a fierce, no-warning, hellgate
that pounds my left bicep.
I am knocked sideways by the force of his fist.
A grip catches me. A cameraman checks
for blood & broken bone.
The herd rushes between us for my protection.
He was just drunk, they say. Nothin’ to it, really.
Call time is 8 a.m., next morning.
Cali is on-set with his walkie
and bright future
making big movies, lots of action.
Back in my windowed office, everywhere is prairie:
bison turned aside from near extinction,
hectares of violence under big sky,
each bruise the color of bird feathers.
