The Silver Dollar (Clinton, AZ 1971)
our first-ever ghost town but my hitchhiking buddy and I hadn’t received
a formal invitation but neither had the diamondbacks
painted boards on the boarded-up buildings warned of their ubiquitous presence
not anxious to make their acquaintance after hours of thumbing rides in the desert sun,
we're content to simply slum in the converted yellow school bus
“Grab a bunk,” invite the owners so I lend them my Blues Harp for the party
it echoes down the desolate street like a banshee
as our hippie hosts make their way to the only event in town--
one to which we along with the rattlers hadn't been asked to join
in the town's defunct and grubby saloon, The Silver Dollar
still, this Wild West icon charmed me when we shuffled past
the levered barroom doors creaking in the breeze beckoned
the draw to saunter through proved strong (spurs jangling in my beguiled mind)
but we, no more than ghosts, mere strangers in town, had no reason not to leave
to shake this mountain hamlet’s dust from our boots – to move on and hit trail east
to get back from whence we’d come: a college a seven-state tail-race away
“Some spring break eh?” I lamented, recounting the week “Wyatt” announced my jokester
roommate, “your new nickname, pard; best get used to it.”