INTERNATIONAL CAFE

INTERNATIONAL CAFE

Once 10,000 prospectors roamed the streets

of Austin, a ghost town of 204 souls.

At the International Cafe

(the only one in town)

Butch tells me of my cousin, Julia’s ghost,

the spilled coffee. Out at the adobe

the crazy twin who sat sewing

with imaginary needle and thread.

There’s a bar here for every 40 people.

At Home Ranch I look at photos.

My family astride the names of horses:

Ribbons, Stable Boy, Blue, Whitey, Lady.

Which one killed Wild Bill when the bull was unloaded.

Jim tells me stories of my grandmother

gathering eggs before the Indians got to them.

From Ireland she came cross-country

on the Great Western Railroad

to Battle Mountain where her uncle,

Wild Bill, came to meet her in the buggy.

Her brother Joe came by way of Galveston

because the boat was $10 cheaper,

they didn’t have enough for two fares.

There were two Indian villages here.

At the end of the season, Wild Bill

paid the Indians only half of what was owed.

The rest he gave to their women

because the men drank their wages in Austin.

Wild Bill, who once sold his truck in Ione

for a 5-gallon barrel of whiskey & a good game of cards

knew about the wages of sin and hard work.

He’d built this ranch up from dirt to grubstake.

But a foreman sold him out in ’Frisco,

pocketing the bankroll for a round of drinks

and an inferior bull.

9/18/93