#33: okey dokey, long island

Karla Linn Merrifield

Seattle Cowboy comes howdy-doin’ it into a south shore saloon. Dig it: Chicalino’s on a Sunday afternoon. The babes play country tunes, cigarettes fall to ashes and it’s been many moons since there’d been a stranger in their weary midst.

Then Seattle Cowboy comes looking like he’s never been kissed. Point Lookout, end of the line and first on the list. The lady has a caper to complete. Slip her a nickel’s worth, ’cause it’s been a long, long time since there’s been a stranger in our salty midst.

Seattle Cowboy comes leatherbacked and lookin’ around—hold it, folks, the Lido Street hero is on the town. Eye the women, sip a beer, sit down, sit back, ’cause it’s been at least a year since there’s been a stranger in this hungry midst.

Seattle Cowboy comes coolin’ in on a faux strut, and all of us, damn it, are foiled again, unlucky to have met as if in an urban myth, much less one at its end, where it’s only once-upon-a-time, no comin’ back for more.