Johnny was small. Like me he wore dirty
jeans and cowboy boots. His black hair
was straight, long. He said he was Pawnee.
He would dance and sing Dreams songs,
kicking up dust, clouding the hot south-
western sun, as we waited for tourists.
We would drink Cokes spiked with vodka
I stole from my ole man, and listen
to country music radio from Tulsa.
We sat in the shade and watched heat
rise up from the highway. The stale air
burned our faces, chocked in our throats.
Johnny Big Man sang like his Grandfathers
for heat-dazed tourists as they pumped
gas, begging quarters for more smokes.
Last update: 10 May 2000