Trumpeter (1990)
ISSN: 0832-6193
Last Frontier
The tavern is a last frontier, A flower on the grave of wildness. When a last primeval forest echoes With machinery of our greed, unruly Passionate drinkers root the earth Like crowberry, saxifrage and moss In a northern hinterland. Then, A Greek barwoman, bent with age, Serves cold beer and homemade soup, A jukebox dishes up another disc of Unrequited love, even as the city Stalks for renovation, uniformity, As a nation stalks with caribou-grace To drink from hidden pools of wealth! Drinkers sense the myth of Midas, Know a history from saloon to Disco-bar, from tundra's voice To engine's wail, from gold to oil. The tavern is a last frontier, A flower on the grave of wildness. Still, the root remains.
Copyright retained by author(s)
PID: http://hdl.handle.net/10515/sy5zk55z9
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