A GYPSY AT THE EL CAPITAN

A GYPSY AT THE EL CAPITAN


The gypsy sat on the curb
near the entrance to the El Capitan,
a wily buzzard with knees as high as her head
putting on the airs of a cagey owl
in a scarf, slipons, and slacks.

We saw her across from where we were staying the night
in the canary yellow lodge of a pink flamingo town
full of faded signs, flashing lights, gambling dens,
and a haggard cafe boasting one arm bandits.

While my wife took a nap,
I took our daughter
into a crowded glittery parlor.
I sat her on my lap
and handed her a few nickels to feed the slots.
It was fun until a fat deputy sheriff threw us out,
not believing my story when I said I was unfamiliar with these parts
and had no way of knowing children weren't allowed in their colorful carnival casinos.

During our absence, my island girl wife woke up
and went into the lot to rearrange the cacti
she picked from the desert and buried in the trunk.
That's when the gypsy caught her off guard,
saying her and her son could use a ride back east,
she had noticed our Maryland tags.
My wife lied and told her "we're heading to California"
and after that my beloved mate
retreated to our twenty dollar room.

She was still there cowering and peeking from behind the oily curtains
when I and our persona non grata kid arrived famished
and unaware of her abysmal fear.
To put her at ease I ventured out and from the car
grabbed a few peaches and plums wedged but unstuck by the cactus.
I spotted the gypsy chatting up a cockeyed cowboy
swigging from a bottle, hidden in a bag.

I decided to take a long hike out of that creepy town
and follow the empty two lane into a desert hungover
from too many explosions of atom bombs, heat seeking missiles, and nerve gas canisters.
A mile out I discovered row upon row of abandoned quonset huts
sagging near fortified bunkers and broken towers
behind skull and bone barriers in abject surrender to the arid legions
where I could've used a drink of water.

The ammo dump sunk back into the world of my father's war
in a place as forlorn and forgotten as a lost hubcap
or a busted bottle or a bloody road kill
still reaching for a mangled cigarette,
three hundred miles from a fast food chain
and two hundred from the nearest interstate
and I still craved water.
The next morning we checked out of the El Capitan.

We left behind one roughneck, a couple of poachers,
a flat broke prospector, and a highway crew.

We drove in the wake of gaunt and gullied mountains,
rolling on back to the grassy green lawns
as lush and trim as a dance hall harlot's nails.
Then out of nowhere, a solitary truck passed
and riding shotgun, I saw the gypsy
before she vanished into a cloud of dust,
that truck's grit left a crack in my glass.

by L DOUGLAS ST OURS May 2010