John Ottey

Charles Cox

Charles Cox sits at the Buffet Bar
forearms on the edge, so naturally;
there must be dents in his bones.
His ropy fingers tightly twined
warming over steam
rising from his coffee.
His cowboy hat pushed back,
a dusty halo
surrounding oasis eyes
on a desert face of
cracked leather.
Takes out his pouch;
rolls a cigarette,
slow as a southern drawl.
He says a Mexican taught him;
and they’re the best.
He says his aunt bores him;
but her dumplings bring him back.
I strain to hear him
Talk of a younger Tucson.
Or the time he shot at the mayor’s son.
When he laughs and shakes his head,
I do, too, as if I understand.
And then we both take drinks
to hide the pauses
pass the minutes
until his next
I remember when...

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