I had not seen Danny and Oscar together
Since I took my family from Castle Valley
Almost four years earlier, the end of days
Spent in the quiet interrupted by the rare
Bark of a dog, cry of a peacock, rumble
Of a delivery truck down the only real road,
End of nights in the genuine dark enjoyed
By moon phases, planets and stars, graced
By the coyote howl, the owl, the scream
Of a mountain lion prowling the Rim.
Oscar took me to see the giant bus
He had bought to turn into a house,
Parked up a mud-gutted, juniper-scrub lot.
Danny built us a giant bonfire using debris,
Branches, and gasoline. We threw our tales
On it while the first quarter shone over
The ghostly La Sals and Castleton Tower
Wavered in the greasy haze of the fire.
Danny was going to AA. Oscar was solo
Battling the demon that had once led him
To nightly applications of a two a.m.
Chinese liver cleanse, whatever that was.
Throw that on the fire as well, flambéed
Memories of drunken nights and hungover
Days. Like all recoverers, they had stories
To tell, brawls in the bars, arrests at blood
Levels associated with blackout, still
Gripping the wheel of a car, the time
Danny almost lost his pilot's license,
The time Oscar stood mutely wetting
His trousers, too pissed to open his fly.
Our personalities don't change much,
No matter how much we throw on the fire.
We all cracked wise, cursed, and guffawed.
We all stank of woodsmoke next morning,
No matter how sober, and the sun rose
As stubborn as ever over our hopes and us.
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