While wandering the desert of Nevada,
Complaining of the lack of drink and grub,
I came across a bar in sight of nowhere,
"The Ghost Town Saloon and the Santa Fe Club."
Established in the height of golden fever
In nineteen zero five the sign had said,
I wondered if the souls of Virge and Wyatt
Were dealing out cards as the riches were shed.
One almost hears the bustle and the gambling
Of miners, ranchers, harlots and the sharks,
Piano playing on without a chorus,
And faro's lost bets by the victimized marks.
Now silently this building has been aging,
Its warping porch besieged with squeak and squeal,
I dared to enter, finding only locals,
And almost relieved that the patrons were real.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.