Gerald Wagoner

Thoreau at the Rainbow Bar

Andy’s bar had its start in 1883.
Been a pale-face place ever since.

They all have that look I grew up 
with. A certain tribe of wind chiseled 
white people who stuck it out, digging, 
planting, tending their pioneer stories.

One cowboy chews and stares 
like a broad-shouldered steer. 
His friend, lean and wizened as jerky.

It’s no Saturday night at the rodeo, 
but Wednesday night is edgy. 
Jack, the bartender, is pouring 
double shots of straight rye. 

You call the bar, Pendleton’s 
beating heart. Jack retorts:
Only thing beating in this town.

Most here break their bodies 
daily to keep something between 
their children and hunger. 

You allow to yourself though, 
The Rainbow is an oasis 
from the intensifying phases 
of a disquieting desperation.

 

Gerald Wagoner’s, A Month of Someday, is forthcoming in December from Indolent Books. He grew up in Eastern Oregon and Montana and his recent work reflects revisiting that area.