Mountain Saloon

Darkness in daylight and a sweet

whiskey smell said Hey

to six-year-old me when

my Aunt Nevada opened the door

to the Buckhorn saloon. I

registered a glowing brass

pipe running the length

of a dark varnished bar,

down where feet are. 

An altar of bottles--brown,

clear, green--gathered itself

around a long mirror.

An an antlered deer's head

eyed me. Aunt went back

to get broom, bucket, and mop.

She and Uncle owned the bar. 

After dinner, my dad freshly

showered would fall asleep 

in a chair before going to the

second job: pouring drinks

at this place. Tending bar. 

Caves, tombs, hideouts, 

temples, chapels, dens of

equity, harbors, imagined

carnivals of sex and power:

later I'd learn what dark bars

could become--neon glowing

outside, light in darkness. 

hans ostrom 2021