|Me an' Mason Williams,
Down the Garden Path
Bonnie Cochrane Hirsch,
Boise ID (circa 1930's)
How bout them zucchini growers,
aint they good?
Sneakin they old squash
around the neighborhood.
Always grow too many,
never pickem small.
Stuffem down the family
til they wants to bawl.
Watchem growin faster
than they hands can pick.
Servem every dinner
til they gittin sick.
Never pickem liddle,
lettem grow too big.
Feedem to the neighbors,
feedem to the pig.
How to grow zucchini?
Quickest thing around.
Gitcherself a buncha seeds,
shove em ina ground.
by Rob Moore, Troy, ID
In Troy there's a bar just like your house
only better; your wife's not there.
Long white curtains hang over the square
window like they did in the kitchen at home
those late nights after the baby slept
and your wife lay tossed in exhausted sheets
and you stayed awake, smoking, listening
Jim Beam neat in a jelly glass, wood table
in front of you worn smooth as trouble by
the buffed fog of alcohol.
Nobody bothers to clean the ashtray. The door
stays closed. Women walking by on the street
outside peek over the curtain but they don't see
you. There's more whiskey than you can drink
in a lifetime, try as you might, in the clear
bottles stacked like cordwood against the cold.
The glass always holds enough oblivion
Found on a vintage postcard
Take me back to old Idaho,
Where there's plenty room and air;
Where's there's cottonwood an' pine trees,
Bitter root and prickly pear;
Where there ain't no pomp nor glitter,
Where a shillin's called a "bit,"
Where at night the magpies twitter,
Where the Injun fights were fit.
Take me back where the sage is plenty,
Where there's rattlesnakes and ticks;
Where a stack of "whites" costs twenty,
Where they don't sell gilded bricks;
Where the old Salmon river,
An' the crystal Coeur d'Alene
Makes green patches in the lava beds,
Where prosperity reigns supreme.
Take me where there ain't no subways,
Nor no forty-story shacks;
Where they shy at automobiles,
Dudes, plug hats an' three-rail tracks;
Where the old sun-tanned prospector
Dreams of wealth an' pans his dirt,
Where the sleepy night-herd puncher
Sings to steers and plies his quirt.
Take me where there's diamond hitches,
Ropes and brands and ca'tridge belts;
Where the boys wear chaps for britches,
Flannel shirts and Stetson felts.
Land of alfalfa an' copper!
Land of sapphire an' gold!
Take me back to dear Idaho,
Let me die there when I'm old.
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