Weekly Poem: Midwest Ranchera
Thursdays, the devil danced at the Black Saddle, cloven
hooves tracking dust for later evidence. He drove a black
Mercury with suicide doors and flames flickering the fins.
Sometimes he slid from the door with his tail forking long
and taut to the floor. Hot-tongued, he would say, Do you
want to touch it? And who didn’t want to touch that tail?…