Turning south off Northern onto Sixteenth
and glancing at the hills on the left,
every time, the man thought of
Matthew’s Mountain and the big, beautiful
house that was to be built there
after Matthew, the Handyman,
got his feet back on the ground and reestablished
in the construction business after
the recession receded.
A rancher’s kid, Matthew rode bulls in the rodeo,
broke thirty some bones, reached for
the heroin and shook hands
with the devil who stayed on Matt’s back for years.
Finally sober with a heart for others
and their monkeys, Matthew
just couldn’t resist a ride on the wild side, so he
bought a bike and hung a left just
when the truck hung a right
right into the Electra Glide in Blue. The mountain,
really just a big desert hill, still has the
Palo Verde and a few snakes on
top. Each time the man passes, he remembers
his English lit. professor saying,
“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!”